


Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas

by Lasgalendil



Series: Ernestina-verse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Child Abuse, I keep killing them off but they're procreating, I think I need therapy, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Never mind I'm already in therapy, No really there's an adorable toddler, Not for the faint of heart, Revenge, So death, Such dark, This fic as taken over my life, Too Many Original Characters, Wow, dark as fuck, much emo, no really, send help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood. Betrayal. Guilt. Obsession. Love. Loss. A Broken Promise, a Restored Faith. The Legacy falls, and the Joker is loosed. Enraged at the death of her son, a disgraced detective begins a violent vendetta, leaving Gotham reeling in her wake. But is this vigilantism justice? Can it ever be? A struggling city under a Reign of Chaos and Doubt searches for salvation and the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I am Gotham. I do not learn from my mistakes.

I am Racheal, weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted because they are no more.

A pale, perfect boy lies dead on the operating table, chest jumping with the pulses of the defibrillator. His dark eyes are staring, open, terribly and wretchedly empty. Strong arms hold me back as I scream for Angel, they are dragging me to the door. I bite, scratch, kick and taste the bitter salt of my own blood. More hands, more struggle—I can no longer see him, and still they haul me back. Angel can't die! I am screamingsobbing, Angelscan'tdie—!

I wake, and Angel's eyes are open.

They are smooth and wet, liquid like a doe's. I am mesmerized, caught in the contrast between their gleaming whites and profound darkness.

I want to touch his face, run my fingers over the soft lines of his jaw, trace one, trembling tip down the perfect line of his small nose. But he is so fragile, so delicate…

I fear to break him.

I reach a timid hand over to caress his curly hair. Looking into those eyes I falter. I fear rejection. But I am foolish-he raises a small hand and touches mine, the sharp tips of his tiny nails prickling my skin.

"Hey," I whisper.

I love him. Irrationally, irrevocably, eternally. At twenty-six I find myself staring into the eyes of the child I can never have. At eight, he sees his murdered mom.

I wanted a child. He needed a mother…

We are destined to be. He was born here, in my arms. The dark dreams of his past are erased when he looks into my eyes, his horrible secrets are safe with me, locked forever behind my lips. Already have I forgotten them.

He is pale and beautiful, sorrow and silence, darkness and light… and he is mine.

I will hold him, raise him, love him.

What would you call perfection if you could hold it? I call him Angel.

"Hey," I whisper again. He smiles weakly back. But there is pain in those dark eyes, pain and fear. "They can't hurt you anymore." I breathe, "Angel…"

I touch his face. He is pale and strangely cold. Twin tears leak from his weepy eyes, tracing down my fingers to drop burning onto my palms. I ache to pull him closer, that enthralling, maternal desire to press him against my skin where nothing can harm him…

My fingers brush something dark and wet. For a moment, I cannot breathe. In all the world there is only the cold whiteness of his pale face, the burning darkness of his deep eyes and hair…there is no color here. I cannot focus, my vision blurring. What is this scarlet on my hand?

It's blood.

Angel's blood. I fling back the cover and it has spread in a seeping, scarlet stain across half the bed, the sheets, the mattress, his skin all coated with a with this same, poisonous shame.

My scarlet-stained fingers are in front of my face, but I cannot move, only stare into those pain-stricken, expectant eyes and realize my Angel is dying.

Agony.

I know now that Hell is choosing between letting an Angel die, or surrendering him to the Devil himself. But this is the price I pay in taking him. This is the price of silencing his secrets, my own private purgatory for all my crimes: to choose.

Yesterday I murdered his bastard of a father. I took him for my own. The hospital will ask questions. If I tell CPS the truth, they will take him away. I would go to prison. He would forever be one of hundreds of molested little boys, forced into psychotherapy, labeled, victimized, forever a foster-child, never a son, eternally pitied…

He is limp in my arms now, wrapped in the blood-soaked bed sheet. His dark eyes stare up into mine, trusting, loving, deceived. I'm sorry Angel, I'm so sorry—Gotham Memorial Hospital is three blocks from my apartment, I stagger under the weight of my choice, the boy in my arms less a burden then my guilt. I am too selfish to let him die. He looks into my streaming eyes and believes they are all he needs, he trusts me to make it better, erase the pain like his dark and disturbing dreams…

But I will only make it worse.

Midnight headlights cut across my blurring vision, strangely iridescent, splitting into a thousand shafts in the diamonds of my tears. The night is weeping too, her freezing guilt falling with a sudden flash of silent thunder. My long, flickering shadow a demon, pulling me, weighting me, haunting me down…

I stumble, spill my burden onto the star-strewn, shimmering street. I bear him up again, my child, my Angel, my savior, dying in my arms as cold and still, terrible and beautiful as a Pieta-Christ, wet and wretched against my heart.

Help me! God somebody help me help Angel I am shouting, shouting as the boy in my arms trembles and shakes, his doe-eyes rolled back, dull instead of gleaming they take him from me and lay him on a stretcher, flopping horribly and bucking from the shock his blood is gone his blood is gone and running in scarlet streams like the freezing, dripping rain still falling from the sky and my burning, blurring eyes-

I wake. Angel's eyes are open, staring into mine.

Oxygen tubes poke harshly into his tiny nose, his arms a tangle of IV tubing and the countless units of borrowed blood. He is lying on his stomach, his frightened face turned to me over the pillows.

His liquid eyes begin to focus. He sees me.

And smiles.

I am forgiven.

"Angel," I whisper, touching his face, running my finger down the straight line of his nose, pressing the tip. He mimics me weakly, laying a trembling palm against my cheek. Tears trickle and run onto his tiny nails. I weep. My face is inches from his, laid on his bedside, staring, loving, adoring. I memorize every detail, the shape of his cherub's mouth, his perfect nose, those wide, doe-like eyes, the tears clinging to their impossible lashes…

Angel.

There are footsteps behind me, uniforms reflected in the unending pools of his fathomless eyes. They are here.

"Ma'am? We need to talk."

Let them try to take him from me. They will not find it easy. My lips are on his perfect face, my hands buried in his sweet-smelling hair, his breath is soft and warm, panting gently against my throat. He screams as I am forced from his embrace, the sharp tips of his tiny nails ripping ribbons of flesh from my outstretched, flailing fingers I am dragged I am screaming AngelAngelAngel—!

My hands are clenched around the doorframe, my body suspended and tossed by an angry mob of reaching arms and flashing badges, Angel's mouth is open and he coughs in a silent, wordless scream. Our eyes meet and I tell him they will have to spill me before I divulge his secret, that they will take me from him and tell him that I have done those horrible things to him, that he can never, ever see me again because his blood was on my sheets and I'm a horrible fucked up child molester who deserves to die in prison anyways and the lies, lies, lies I will take and bear in your name because I love you, Angel—

Their force is unrelenting. My arms are weakening. Our gazes hold us locked. His pale lips part.

I'll come back for you, Angel! Whatever it takes I promise I'll come back—!

I am taken.

Call me Gotham. I do not learn from my mistakes.

I am Racheal.

You cannot comfort me.


	2. Chapter 2

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

PANDEMONIUM TASKFORCE briefing: The following video was discovered on Youtube by the Gotham City FBI cybercrimes division on August 23rd, 15:00 EST. It was subsequently archived under the file of John Doe #387, alias The Joker. Since its initial posting by Arewehavingfunyet not 72 hours prior to this discovery, it had already received over 2,000,000 hits. That number would triple over the next three days until its removal.

This video contains both graphic and disturbing images. The team investigating the video was referred to psychological services, and civilian viewers exposed to its content are encouraged to seek professional counseling immediately. A hotline has been established through the Gotham City Department of Family and Childhood Development Services. Coming so soon after the fall of the Wayne Legacy Foundation, no portion of this video is deemed appropriate for use by or to be released to the mainstream media.

Additional note: The victim in question has now been positively identified by voice and facial recognition software as GCPD Homicide Detective Jimmy Connolly, age 22. Reported missing in action on August 19th, 2030, Detective Connolly is currently presumed dead until convincing evidence can be provided to the contrary.

Darkness, footsteps. The camera pans up to a faded, chipped white door. The bullet-proof security glass is tainted from the inside with dark-red, congealed splatters. A hand reaches for the door, and the camera shifts, juggling awkwardly. A brief view of the dripping ceiling, the dirty floor, then the angle balances. In the corner of the room furthest from the door, an emergency transport gurney stands lonely against the wall. Hidden under plaster-coated blankets and sheets, a small shape lies still. Gender, age, and race are indistinguishable. The camera moves drunkenly forward.

"This is our, uh, newest patient." A sudden glimpse of a grotesquely painted face, then a surgical mask is placed over the scarred features, hiding them from view. Gloved hands enter the jerking frame, shaking the bundle roughly. "Wake up wake up c'mon c'mon, smile for the birdie…the Battie…" The camera shifts again, winking in and out of focus on the patient's face.

The young man's eyes flutter open. He groans, coughing.

"Hey. Hey. Hey I'm talking to you!" The gloved fingers lift pallid eyelids, shining a flashlight into the quickly constricting pupils. "Hey!" The hands bat the boy's face, making a squelching sound as they leave the flesh. Finally he raises a bruised hand in protest, chirping groggily and stirring. A prolonged, raucous giggle erupts from the medic.

"Would you look at that? You're finally a-wa-kuh."

"Who are you?" The patient whispers weakly.

"I'm a, uh, doctor." The surgical mask twists and bulges, cruel, yellowish eyes wrinkling over its upper edges along the bridge of the nose. "You can call me uh, Doctor J... But the real question here is: who are you?" The voice behind the mask is muffled but excited. "Ya see, I really need to uh, know. It might help with my uh, my treatment."

"Jimmy-" the boy's voice trails off, his eyes focusing blearily into the camera.

"What is your, uh, full name?" The purple smocked doctor asks. "Ya might to want to write this down, Commissioner." He turns back to the camera, an odd, moist noise, like chewing opened mouthed coming from behind a blue surgical mask. "Just in case."

"Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly-"

"Well," One gloved hand reaches up, patting the boy's clammy face. "Jimmy-Jimmy Connolly, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two." The words slip out between small, hiccoughing coughs.

"And where do you work, Jimmy? Or are you…uh, unemployed?"

"Police-" Here the coughing grows louder, and the rest of the sentence is drowned out. The boy's chest rises higher, shuddering then laying still again. His face is clenched in pain, both hands pressed over his side.

"A police officer?" That cheery voice rings, insistent. "A Gotham City police officer?"

The boy nods, his face still twisted in pain.

An odd bulge appears under the surgical mask, moving swiftly sideways. "Hmmm…a police officer. That uh, that changes things." There is a brief pause, and a packet of surgical instruments is opened and dumped on the bed. A tingling of ringing steel, and a lancet and scapel tinker as they topple to the floor.

"Do you remember what happened?"

The boy shakes his head, the movement barely perceptible.

"Well," that gumming noise smacked from behind the mask again. "I'm afraid there's been a terrible, uh, accident, Jimmy. Dr. J is going to have to do a uh, quick ex-a-mi-na-shun."

'Yeah." The boy mutters.

The dusty sheets are pulled back slowly. The boy is naked from the waist up.

"Lets uh, focus, on that right there…" the gloved hand enters the frame again, gesturing towards a bright, jagged lesion running the length of the boy's abdomen. "It looks…infected." The doctor's face re-enters the frame, yellow eyes sparkling with malice.

"Tell me when it hurts."

The camera speakers erupt into white noise, unable to properly record the prolonged scream. The volume cuts in and out, then the angle spins away, out of control, knocked aside by the boy's thrashing. Over the grating sound of the locked wheels jerking against the concrete, and the steel rails shaking and scraping into the plaster walls, the doctor's menacing voice can barely be heard. "Oh, and there too? And here? My, my my…and does it uh, hurt worse when I press, oh, apparently, yes…"

The interview continues for exactly five minutes and forty-three seconds. The examination—and that scream—terminate only with a coughing retch and a heavy splatter.

The doctor bends, covering the frame. He clicks his tongue, removing the dropped lancet and scalpel from the puddle of vomit. "Well, now." He says. "Can't have that, can we?" He wipes them on the sheets, then wads up a fistful of the dirty sheets to clean the sheen of sick off his sweating patient. The boy is whimpering.

"Lets uh, get you something for the…pain." A syringe is plunged into the flesh of the quivering forearm. "It might take a few minutes for it to, uh, take effect-tuh."

He leans over the patient, forcing a dark, bleary eye open and again shining the light. It constructs to a tiny pinprick, then slowly, ever so slowly it dilates, the iris vanishing until it is nothing more than a sliver of amber ringing the pupil."There we go…"

'Its getting…" the boy's voice trails off as his eyes are allowed to close. "worse…"

The purple gloved hands come back into view, toying with the surgical instruments, holding them up to the light.

"I'm not going to uh, lie to you Johnnie-"

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy. I'm not going to lie to you. It looks pretty uh, pretty serious for you right now."

The dilated eyes open again, blank and staring.

"We might have to uh, amputate."

"What?" The boy blinks lazily in confusion, pursing his dried lips.

"Am-pu-tay-tuh. Cut off. Remove. Dismember, ya know?"

"Amputate…what…"

"Hmmm." The doctor muses, drumming fingers noisily on the steel bedrails. "That's a very good question. Let's see, uh, pretty much everything from uh, here," he gestures to the gaping wound standing bright against the pallid flesh of the boy's torso. "uh, down."

The boy blinks again, eyes widening, staring, unable to focus in the bright light. He searches the doctor's face, then his own body, coughing to sit up and stare at the wound. He stops, mesmerized, at the sight of the exposed tissue glistening in the light. He coughs again, lets out a cry of pain, then falls back onto the stretcher, panting.

His breath comes in short, small gasps. His blank eyes open again under contorted brows, tearing in pain. He looks at the cotton ball taped on his arm. "I need more, more morphine-"

"Morphine?" The masked doctor asks in mock surprise, waggling a finger,"You uh, you wanted morphine? Oh, tsk, tsk. I asked you if you wanted something uh, for the pain, Johnnie-boy. You never said you wanted a pain killer."

He looks up, hair slicked with sweat, lips dry and parched, eyes unable to focus. His hands are trembling over the wound. "What did you give me…"

That odd, smacking noise scarcely conceals a gleeful giggle. "Methylamphetamine. Now isn't that fun to say? C'mon, say it: Methylamphetamine. I love how the llll sound just rolllls off the tongue-"

"You gave me meth…."The boy grimaces as he sits up again, trembling with the effort to raise himself.

"Aw, c'mon. Meth isn't fun. Meth is boring, and I don't like being bored, Johnnie-boy. Say methamphetamine, we're getting somewhere. But use the real name: methylamphetamine-now that's uh, that's exotic! Why anyone would ever want to short-ten it…." The voice grows higher and higher, breaking off into a fit of giggling. The doctor leans over the cot, cold eyes sparkling over his terrible Cheshire grin. "Now say it, Johnnie-boy. Say methylamphe-tah-me-nuh. Let's hear you say it-"

"You're not a doctor," he whispers, his wide, doe-eyes staring in horror. "You're insane."

Only silence greets him.

"I resent that." Each syllable is punctuated with a gumming smack of the lips. The doctor continues to stare out of black, burning sockets. Suddenly a gloved hand rips the mask down, revealing again the grotesquely painted face, its shadowed wrinkles, puffy scars, and lopsided, sinister grin painted clumsily like a cut-throat ear to ear. "Surprise!"

The boy yelps, writhing in horror as the Joker cackles wildly, dancing, doubling over in a flash of violent purple and green.

"Oh, ho, ohohoh Johnnie-boy!" The Joker hoots in glee. "Ya should've seen your face-"

He straightens, his terrible visage looming into view. He bends over the gurney, leering-

-a sudden flash of movement, a rustle of the sheets, a sharp cry-

-the camera falls, clattering wildly as the dirty room spins again and again. "Oh damn oh fuck oh shit shitshitshit!" The camera slowly stops spinning on its side, and the Joker has fallen, gloved hands clasped to his face. He rises slowly, a demon from the ashes, his yellow eyes burning.

Dark red blood pours from his cheek around the buried handle of the scalpel.

"Ya think that was uh, ya think was clever?" He whispers, walking closer. 'Given the uh, the circumstances?" One gloved hand yanks on the handle, ripping a chunk of flesh from the painted death mask. The steel lancet is now in the boy's hand, their arms meeting in a fury of blows. They struggle wildly, but only briefly. Within seconds, the lancet topples from the boy's whitening fingers as a gloved palm engulfs his wrist.

The Joker grabs the boy by the hair, twisting his face up toward his own. One gloved hand holds the scarlet scalpel. "And as if my face wasn't ugly enough al-ready, you had to go and uh, cut it up. Don't ya think this'll leave a scar? And now wouldn't that be such a sha-muh, scarring up such a uh, pretty face-"

"Oh God-" The boy whispers as the cold metal of the scalpel caresses the smooth skin of his cheek. The Joker's blood drips down onto his bare chest, running in rivers, staining the white sheets a dark, deadly crimson.

"Yes, Johnnie-boy," The clown whispers, bringing their faces together so gently it could have been for a kiss. "I am uh, god-duh . I have the power to kill you or let you uh, live. That makes me uh, pretty, pretty di-vine, don't ya think?"

"You're…not…god." The boy pants, every syllable an agony.

A groping, gloved hand covers the camera lens, hoisting it up in the air, the fingers slip away and the boy's pallid face, crushed in the iron grip of one of those powerful hands, fills the entirety of the screen. The scalpel presses firmly into his cheek, one large, perfect bead of blood rolling down from blade-tip to end.

He blanches.

The Joker licks and smacks his lips in anticipation, smearing red greasepaint and bitter blood across his misshapen cheeks. "You're uh, you're right, Johnnie-boy…." He croons lowly, one hand lovingly slicking a tangle of dark curls from the boy's dazed eyes. "Ya see…I'm the devil."

The scalpel plunges and disappears.

A fountain of blood erupts. The lens is splattered, the camera is tossed and lands with a violent, jarring stop. The gurney shakes and strains, the stainless steel screaming in protest, the quaking, locked wheels crushing and crashing into the tile. The boy thrashes mechanically in the bed, keening and seizing, the sound muffled and distorted by his raw and disfigured mouth.

The boy's blood-slick fingers are groping, scrabbling, tearing at the backs of those merciless purple gloves clamped around his upturned face. Blood overflows from his widened, gaping mouth, between his dull gums and bright teeth, pooling and pouring over the tops of the Joker's unrelenting hands, fingers buried through the remains of the tattered cheeks. Slowly, ever so slowly with that same, seductive gesture and burning look, the Joker tilts back his victim's head as though for a tender kiss…The squelching, sputtering coughs fade. The Joker's deep, ragged breaths and low, eerie hum are the only sounds.

It takes one minute, forty-seven slow seconds for the boy to drown.

The neck goes limp, the weight of the body dangling awkwardly from the Joker's hands. He releases the ruined face with flourish, and the limp form topples sideways from the cart, hanging from the blood soaked sheets like a shriveled fly in a spider's web.

The Joker heaves a sigh of release, stretching and smearing blood with paint on the back of his gloved hand and sleeve. Theatrically, he removes the long rubber gloves from his arms, slicking back green-streaked, sweaty hair from his forehead.

"Now, hmmm, where does this leave us…" The Joker walks towards the camera, growing larger and larger until his framed face and reaching hands fill the view. "I prefer to think of it as an, uh, educational ex-pe-ri-ence.. Ya see, folks, Johnnie here died because Johnnie-here was whatcha call a uh ,a doubter. Johnnie-here didn't uh, belie-vuh."

The camera rotates as the Joker speaks, dropping its gaze lower. He pauses, nudging the body with an irreverent foot. The form slips downwards several inches through the sheets, swaying slowly as he continues.

"Now, listen up kiddos, there's people not gonna wantcha to watch this video. But ya need to, because ya need to understand. Ya see, I don't want heroic little Johnnie-here to have uh, died in vain. People want to protect ya but ya need to know…they can't.

And they don't want ya to know the uh, truth. And the truth folks, is I might be the devil, but here I get to play uh, god. So ya better believe, ya'd better have uh, fai-thuh. Because I am om-ni-po-ten-tuh. So when I say something will happen its gonna happen. Don't believe your parents, don't believe the police, don't trust the police. They might put up a good uh, figh-tuh…but in the end they're whatcha call uh, powerless…"

He hoists up the limp body by its lank, sweat-soaked hair, the ruined jaw hanging slack, blood running smooth and thick from the gaping mouth. Slowly, sensuously, he presses the slimed face into the wall, smearing the sanguine-soaked flesh into the shape of a sinister, dripping smile. He steps back, tilting his head hawk-like to admire his handiwork, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

The defiled body falls with a lifeless, final thump.

The Joker's Cheshire grin fills the entire screen: his bared yellowed teeth, the raised, wrinkled flaps of skin moist and glistening, the jagged, bleeding scalpel wound pulsating rhythmically. "So…" The Joker smacks his slimy lips. "Who ya gonna trust? Me?"

"…or them?"

The camera veers sickeningly downwards to a spreading pool of viscous blood.

Detective Jimmy Connolly lays maimed and motionless on the floor, his dark, dilated eyes as hollow and haunting as any promise of protection.


	3. Chapter 3

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 23rd

21:47 EST

…I've been here before.

In this same damn room, with this same damn gun. Always drinking, always alone. But tonight will be different.

Tonight, it's my turn.

Art Jamison used to carry this gun. He was my first captain, back in the dark days. Before Fear Night, before Batman, when the Roman's stranglehold on organized crime made Al Capone's years of terror in Chicago seem like a child's playground… Back when I used to work with Gordon. Art was killed. Gordon lived. I got his Beretta. Gordon got his position.

Art had given me what no one else would: a chance. And Gordon? Gordon gave me shit.

No, Gordon gave me hell.

There's not a councilman or a judge in this fucking city with a record better than mine. The dirty politicians bought by the mob, corrupting justice for their own sick pleasure surround us. Gotham's heart is rotting. Even now after the Dent Statute there's not a councilman or hardly a cop even in WATCHDOG dragging around less shit than me. Yet I was the one sacrificed. The fucking scapegoat—the purge.

But I only did what any other cop would have done. Hell, what anyone would have done. I can still remember it so vividly I wonder that it has been thirteen years, that Barbara Gordon can't stand to speak to me, that her husband is no longer neither my partner nor my friend, that he climbed the political ladder to become Commissioner, and yet I am still sitting alone in this damn apartment, thirteen years after that godawful night. I wonder whether Heaven is open to me after all I've done, yet how even with this doubt that Hell can seem better than another moment of this miserable life…

Yet mostly I wonder that Angel never wrote. Not once. Not even to thank me…

And now he never will.

CPS should have handled it.

Homicide. Gordon and I were closest when they called it in. She's 23 or 24, lying sprawled on the linoleum, only a thin trickle of blood across the top of her head, running like a red scar between her open, bloodshot eyes. A broken piece of the acrylic counter top lies next to her. A spatula rests across from her open, outstretched hand—she must've been holding it when she fell. We snap some pictures, then sit in the living room and wait.

Evidence will be here soon. And an ambulance with a body bag. I find the thought to be strangely perverse.

"You doing okay?" Gordon asks me, kindness in his eyes.

"Yeah, fine." Her face is visible, and she continues her restless, eternal vigil.

"Paltron," He begins again, "It's alright if you don't want to do this-"

"I said I'm fine." I was in Pakistan for 18 months, fresh out of high school. I'd seen dead bodies before. Plenty of them. Gordon's aware of my military record, but even then he doesn't understand. So I take his pity for what it is, heartfelt, but misplaced.

CSI shows up. They snap more pictures, sweep surfaces. The ambulance arrives nearly an hour later. The roads are goddamned awful, the paramedics apologize. Most of the side streets are closed. Only the main thoroughfares are still being plowed. Did you know they shut down the interstate…

I don't hear them. My eyes are the only things working, and they are drawn again and again to that dead girl. She's maybe four years younger than me…Her dull green eyes are open, staring across the filthy room to the pantry. They lift her body, still lukewarm to the touch, and her head dangles obscenely from her wobbly, rubber neck.

They close her eyes, but they spring back open. She continues to stare at the pantry, as though even in death she is drawn to it. The lids are lowered once again, with a gentle squelching click they shut. Her head lolls as they slide her into the black body bag. They zip her from the feet up, and her head bobs again. I taste bile. Her dead eyes have opened yet again.

…She stares at me. This sudden feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nerves. That bitch could've easily been you, I tell myself. What the hell. She probably just slipped. She must've fell.

Yeah fucking right. Acrylic doesn't snap under an underweight, scrawny little bitch like that. Someone had to throw her, slam her, slap her into the counter top. Which blow was nearly enough to knock her head from her shoulders only forensics will tell.

I stare out the kitchen window, and a church bell rings. But this is no Silent Night, there is no Heavenly Peace in Gotham. GCPD and Social Services are always busiest around the holidays, the supposed time of family and peace. And that should tell you something right there. Most families are anything but peace. Most victims are hurt by people they know. People they trust. People, they think, who love them.

There are too many hurt, trusting, naïve people in Gotham. Too many, I turn back to tell the dead girl as the black bag engulfs her satin and lace clad chest. She must have been one of them. Her eyes are still staring into mine, demanding. The zipper closes, and their glazed glare is finally lost.

She's dead, gone. My warning comes too late. Sooner or later, Gotham's women get roughed, raped, or killed. There's nothing I can do but wait for my turn.

Then we find him.

She had been looking at the pantry, and following her stare with a nervous glance I can't fail to notice the puddle of urine forming dusty and dark against the dirty floor. Guns at the ready, we open the slatted door.

A chirp. A child. Eight, maybe nine. Small, fragile, delicate.

The guns are lowered. Through the black plastic of the body bag, I feel her dead eyes boring through me.

CPS should have handled it. But CPS was busy. It was late, it was cold, it was Friday, it was goddamn Christmas-time and every fucking child abuser had been going to town. It had poured sleet and hail and rain and snow until even the salt trucks got off the road.

He doesn' t say a word. When Gordon reaches for him he flinches and shuts his dark eyes tight, leaking hot, weak tears. Without thinking I put Art's beretta down on the broken counter. I walk slowly forward, hazy and stumbling in a trance. My hands find him of their own accord, and he shudders at their touch and surrenders to my embrace.

I'm a woman. Like his goddamned murdered mom. And he trusted me for it. He'd never trust a man again.

He came back to base with us. With me.

He's wrapped in my jacket, one hand and his face pressed against my breasts. He lays sleeping in my arms, his elfin, angel's face laid light and warm against me. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can still feel his breath and body against mine.

He was safe. This kid had just watched his mother die, but he slept in my arms. I was an angel, a goddess, a guardian…

But that was thirteen years ago. And if only that could have been the end. My last sight of Angel. But no. I wept when I watched him die, still feeling him sleeping in my arms, head on my breasts, his warm breath on my skin, knowing it would have been kinder, it would have been more forgivable, had I smothered him there in his sleep.

Art's gun. Beautiful beretta 92F semiautomatic. She is bitter on my tongue, her powder acrid. I feel her cold steel against the roof of my mouth. As an officer I've seen this death a thousand times. It's not poetic, not romantic, neither painless nor pretty. But there are no accidents, no mistakes…no second chances.

The bullet will rip into my brain stem. I will be dead before the back of my skull can mushroom onto the wall behind me.

A mechanical click as I cock the gun. I close my eyes, Angel's face before mine. My hand doesn't tremble as I pull the trigger.

August 23rd

21:57 EST

My courage didn't fail me. But that old beretta did. She had sent twenty-seven to their final rests…but she couldn't send me to mine. The 9mm parabellum lies cold in my palm. I roll it between my fingers, staring. I had cleaned the gun. The round was chambered…

There has to be an explanation. I pick up my phone and dial. My eyes never leave this strange, cylindrical enigma.

"Lawless."

"Hey, Paltron," his voice is shaky.

"Had a question."

"Yeah, shoot." I try to laugh, but can't.

"The old Beretta's-the 92F's. You ever heard of one misfire?"

"Christ, Paltron. They stopped using those years ago…what's this about?"

"I just had one not work for me."

Silence. Lawless is shrewd. Even in his pain he guesses more than I would have him know.

"You okay?"

"You never had a problem with one?"

"No." He sighs, his voice catching. "They're good guns. We just switched to the Westons in the '90's for bigger caliber bullets. You sure you chambered it right?"

I am silent, remembering. The bullet was in. I shut the chamber, twisting it tight. It clicked.

"Positive."

"She's old though. Take her in and get her cleaned."

"Yeah, thanks."

There is an awkward pause.

"You sure you're fine?"

"Yeah." I breathe, unbelieving. "And you?"

His voice breaks. "He was, he was my partner, you know? And um, Amy always makes spaghetti on Fridays you know, and its, its his favorite meal. I couldn't-I tried…I had, I had to tell her that Jimmy…that, that he was dead." The last word is a sob.

I never thought I would hear Aaron Lawless cry. I find my own eyes are hot with tears as I roll the forgiven bullet in my palm. Two impossible things have happened tonight. Two constants, utterly changed: Art's Beretta failed me, and Lawless cried. There must be a purpose, a reason, a deeper, hidden meaning…

And it lies here, heavy in my hand.

My fingers curl around the bullet in a trembling fist. I press them to my lips. Angels should never die. Good, grown men should never have to weep. Not even in Gotham.

"Don't worry." I whisper, both to Lawless and Angel. "We'll get the Bastard."

The line goes dead.

August 23rd

22:53 EST

I cough and check my watch. It's nearly eleven…In little more than an hour, Angel will have been dead for three days. I've only known it for seven hours, but already I've wasted so much time-

Fuck. Angel dead…For thirteen years I've dreamed of finding him, of holding him again, and to have finally found him, finally touched him, to have come so fucking far-

I cough again. Over the last three days, it's gotten progressively worse. Upper respiratory infections are one of the more common side effects of inhaling large amounts of plaster dust, asbestos, paint ships and powdered glass. But even dying slowly I'm still lucky. They've pulled more than four thousand bodies out of the Legacy so far, and they'll still be sifting through the rubble for weeks to come.

This time I can't make the coughing stop. My lungs begin to burn. the lack of oxygen driving me to my knees. My vision begins to tunnel, slowly blackening. Angel's cherubic face flits across my eyelids, he stands in front of me, holding out his tiny hand, beckoning me to peace and rest. I want nothing more than to feel that warm hand in mine, to lay down and surrender to its promise…

I need antibiotics. I need to slow down. I need to rest.

But that Bastard isn't resting. He's still out there. And only when I've sent him to his last and final rest-only when he dies so terrified that Angel's murder looks like child's play-only then will I surrender to something as weak and as human as pain or sleep.

Get up. Be strong. I grit my teeth and stand.

I spit to the side, releasing my frustration like venom on the cracked, splattered pavement. For thirteen years I've found Angel's life my sole reason to live…in death, he has given me another calling: to kill.

I have to find the Joker.

So here I am, in the Narrows, after dark, alone. Even in the daylight, a woman walking alone here is asking for trouble.

But I'm not just asking. I am lusting, burning, aching for someone to cross me. With the Legacy bombing and the declaration of martial law, no one but national guardsmen and Gotham's worst will be patrolling the streets tonight. The simple thugs, the addicts…they're all holed up, terrified, petty playthings for the Joker like the rest of us. No, tonight, under Gotham's Military Order and the Joker's Reign of Chaos, only his tools will be brave enough—or foolish enough—to be out on the streets.

The night is lusty and young, her demons howl as the wind whips my hair and sweatshirt hood back, sending chills down my spine. Perhaps she knows why I am here…and she is as hungry as I am for blood.

"Hey, baby." A low voice drones, its master stepping out of the shadows. I continue walking, increasing my pace-like a good little girl. I'm alone and helpless, I think, come and get me, you bastard. He saunters around the light pole, eying me slowly up from my feet to my face. He's well muscled and brutish looking, and he's got three friends with him, equally as big, as droll…and as dead.

"You're out awful late, there, baby." He says. "Do you need a ride?" His friends snicker.

"Piss off." I work hard to put a quaver in my voice.

"Oh, ho, not a very friendly little thing, are you? What are you doing out on a night like this? Isn't it about time for you to be home…in bed?" His friends snicker again, flanking me.

"Please don't hurt me." They drink it in, predators stalking their prey, the powerful feeding on the powerless. They worship anarchy, adore cruelty. Subhuman animals drinking the life blood of their weaker cousins with conscience, cousins rendered helpless, too ruled by that weakness and naivety to cull the herd. It's no wonder they work for the Joker. He's their god.

My hands are still tucked in the front pocket of the sweatshirt, the extra bulge concealing the tasers gripped tightly in my palms. This was going to be easy. This was going to be fun.

They exchange glances, and with sinister grins they close on me. Only one is intelligent enough to reach for a weapon. He brings his knife up and kisses it suggestively, staring into my eyes. There he suddenly freezes, like an animal, with some innate sense that something was terribly and horribly wrong…

August 23rd

23:07 EST

Ugly and his cronies are all bound with slip ties. I prefer slip ties to duct tape-they're cheaper, for one, and a hell of a lot less annoying. The only downside is you can't use them as a form of torture as well as a binder.

But I brought better toys for that.

"Wake up, motherfucker." I slap Ugly across the face, hard. Bound to my wrist and across my knuckles is a leather strap, decorated with two bronze, serpentine fangs that extend down the back of my hand past my curled fingers. Serrated on the front, cold, hard and smooth on the back. Change the angle, change the pain… It's a relic from my wilder days, before the GCPD re-hired me and I had to clean up my act.

"Where's the Joker?"

He spits teeth and blood, gazing at me defiantly. He knows can't lose face in front of his friends. But he will.

"Where's the Joker?"

I strike him again, spinning into the blow so my entire weight comes crashing down across his mandible. I hear a rewarding crack as the jaw breaks. The sound is musical.

"Bitch!" He shouts, the muscles in his face straining to hold the injury still.

"Where's the Joker?" This time the blow falls on the broken bone and he screams in pain.

"Go fuck yourse—" A sickening crunch and the other side of his jaw is shattered. He screams again, and this time there are molars in the blood. Molars and chunks of pinkish flesh.

His friends are all awake now…and giving me their undivided attention.

I back away from Ugly, staring into each of their eyes in silence. For a while the only sound is Ugly's heavy, labored breathing.

"I'll make this easier for all of us. I. Want. The. Joker." I state evenly. "Anyone who can give me information….dies quickly. Any questions?"

Silence.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, lady!"

"Nobody knows where the Joker is!" Someone blurts. It's the goon who had the knife. His eyes are wide, his mouth hanging in disbelief. He has more instinct than his friends. He's the one. He'll think to pass on information about his rivals, his higher ups…anything. I can tell from their eyes that he is the only one intelligent enough to realize I am deadly, deadly serious. "He's a criminal mastermind, for god's sake! You think he tells fuckin' anybody where he is?"

I say nothing. I don't have to. I simply raise my hand and shave slivers off the plumbing as the leather tightens around my wrist. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, a hacksaw on a violin string…They all cringe. They're an imaginative bunch. They all wonder what these fanged, sharp talons could do to flesh…but no one wants to know.

"One more time." I hiss. "Where is the Joker?"

"Lady, we don't know anything about the damn Joker! We're just, just ordinary criminals, okay?"

"You know nothing. Nothing at all?" I ask, flicking my hand impatiently. The smart one shuts his eyes.

"No, I don't know nuthin' about the fucking Joker, okay? What do you take us for, a bunch of sickos? The Joker's fucked up, fucked up crazy, okay? We don't know nothing about him."

"Yeah. Nothing! We're not mob or anything. We're just normal guys, lady. Jesus, you've got the wrong guys-"

It's the wrong answer. Smart-boy knows it, too.

I remember Angel's gagging screams, watching the light in his horrified eyes slowly dying, the feeble sound of his slick, scrabbling fingers slapping on the Joker's wrists as he drowned in his own blood…There is a plunging noise as I punch deep into their chests, pulling my hand back cleanly, leaving nothing more than two small, deep holes in their right breasts, even with their hearts. Air rushes into the body cavity, the right lung collapses instantly, the pleural layers sticking together, sealing off the bronchial tubes completely. With every breath, more air will enter that pleural space, and the left lung will slowly crumple.

My Angel was drowned… I let them suffocate.

August 23rd

23: 56 EST

I was right. Smart-boy had a friend upriver, Stalton, who dealt arms. He didn't know for certain if he was involved in the Legacy attack…but he might be able to tell me the name of the vendor who was. It was a half-truth. He did know someone, but judging from his nervousness, this Stalton was a small-time dealer and probably wouldn't have considered himself 'a friend.' But it was information. And this Stalton could give me more…

He died messily, but well. True to my word, I slit his throat. His companions were still gasping like fish long after his weakened heart had stopped. One was still making small, arrhythmic croaking noises when I left the place.

Ugly I left to the rats.

I go back to the apartment. This will be my last night here. I can't go after Stalton yet—I'll have to have cash just to get in. It never ceases to amaze me what sort of doors will open with the mention of a mutual friend like Benjamin Franklin. I'll have to empty my bank accounts. Once Ugly and his friends are found, all my assets will be frozen.

So I have to wait until 9 AM, when the banks open. I couldn't do anything more until I visited a joint like Stalton's, anyways. All I have now is Art's old Beretta 92. I need more firepower. And I don't want standard issue GCPD toys. I want SWAT material. I want military hardware. The AK 47 might be outdated, but she's still a good gun. What's better, she's more available. Buying current military is so damn expensive and dangerous…you get caught with an AK 47, you're going to jail for a really, really long time. Toting current military makes you a terrorist…and it won't be jail where you spend the rest of your very short, miserable life. Former President Obama may have closed down Guantanamo Bay back when I was in high school, but that just means no one knows where it is now. Tried and true institutions like torture don't disappear with a new millennium. They just get better.

I shower, the hot water scalding my skin. But I can bear the pain with pleasure. It will make me stronger—I can't be soft. I can't be weak. Pain must become my friend. I will know her intimately before this is over.

I climb into bed, curling up, willing a deep, dreamless sleep to come. I breathe in and out, rhythmically and regularly, forcing my clenched muscles to relax. Even my body doesn't like to be patient.

But it needs sleep. It needs rest. If I am going after the Joker, it will have to learn to wait.

I'm sorry Angel. I have to sleep. This will take so long…there has to be waiting. Hiding. I have to be strong. I have to be prepared…I have to be ready.

I shut my eyes, and I feel his breath.


	4. Chapter 4

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 24th

06:00 EST

1900 E. Philedelphia Dr., Apartment 3337

I wake. Angel's eyes are open.

He lays next to me, small and elfin, no longer a boy but boyish.

Plaster dust and powdered glass fragments coat his skin, his hair, his uniform…It has been thirteen years, but his eyes are the same, my Angel's eyes, loving and liquid, dark with gleaming whites. They smile, skin wrinkling up around their corners, their color evanescing into his impossible lashes.

I want to touch his face, run my fingers over the softness of his jaw, trace one, trembling tip down the perfect line of his small nose once more. I reach out a hesitant hand. He is so fragile, so delicate-

The tip of his nose is warm beneath my outstretched finger. His lips part.

A single bead of blood falls like a tear from his cheek.

His face explodes into a mask of scarlet that stains in a spreading sea on the sheets the mattress his skin he is choking drowning I am screaming keening wrapping him in the sheets to staunch the stain as his nails rip flesh from my hands arms pull me away I am screaming AngelAngelAngel—!

I wake. Alone. I am sweating and I retch. I lay my head back down on the bed, my skin clammy and cold. My fingers reach towards the empty side of the mattress, encountering nothing but still, stagnant air. It has been thirteen years since I woke to the sight of Angel's eyes.

I never will again.

August 24th

09:00 EST

Gotham City Bank and Trust

Sounds are muted, colors dull. Blank, animalistic stares are on the faces of the faceless crowd pushing against me. They are colorless, lifeless, devoid of hope and emotion. I'm either in Hell or Gotham City.

My pulse surges lazily in my neck: Gotham.

I see myself from above this mess, stepping purposefully through the curtains of monotony sheering in human waves around me. Perhaps last night's blood is visible in vibrant Technicolor on my hands. Perhaps they know a killer stalks among them.

Perhaps they are too accustomed to care.

I enter the bank. Behind me, in front of me, reflected in the many, mirrored facets of the building's face, smoke and dust rise in a terrible, ominous cloud.

Five days, and the Legacy is still smoldering. There is a scar of sunlight in the city's skyline.

The tellers are gloomy. Accounts are closing, businesses evaporating, investments have stalled. My face is one of hundreds in the long line of fleeing customers that will drive them under. Security is jumpy. Understandably so. Two years ago this September, the that bastard drove a school bus through the wall I am standing against now. A dead body, masked as a clown, would lie not ten feet in front of me. High above us, charred discoloration wreathes the ceiling in sinister, smoky spirals.

I present my ID, and close my account. I walk calmly back across the atrium, under that ruined ceiling, with $33, 577.09. Cash.

There is a small wishing well for change. A gold placard drolly reads 'Proceeds benefit Stop the Violence'. I fish through the envelope for the nine pennies. They will fall like drops of blood from my hand, sending smooth, clean ripples through the waters of this unfeeling irony.

But my groping fingers are disappointed.

$33,577.10. Too depressed, too disillusioned to count nine pennies she handed me a perfect dime. In front of the fountain I pause to reflect with her a philosophical question: what is one penny worth in the light of thousands?

But each is different, each is unique. They were minted in different places, by different hands, with different seals under different Presidents. Some are copper, others zinc, some are worn yet others shine a shimmering pink in the sun. There are no two alike. What is the worth of thousands in the light of one?

The dime sinks beneath the surface, swaying slowly in its descent into darkness.

Collateral.


	5. Chapter 5

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 24th

15:00 EST

RR Junction 17

I walk the streets, alone.

I have made six bolt-holes across the Narrows, renting cheap, noisy apartments. The landlords want cash. I pay. There are no questions asked.

"Rent due, first every month," the last hag grunts, slamming the door in my face. She reeks of cigarettes and cat shit. I slit open the lice-infested mattress, stuffing a final wad of cash into the seam.

I have finished.

Stalton lives up river, on the northern Fringe of Gotham. Abandoned factories, empty warehouses, a turn of the century slaughterhouse straight from Sinclaire's Chicago and an abandoned railway station all grace this sprawling reek of desolation. To men like the Joker, it's merely a playground. Since the Bastard's imprisonment in Arkham, the scum have slowly begun to trickle back into its noisome gutters. The Fringe is a proverbial Old Town, and tragic, boarded up brick houses line its streets in varying stages of disrepair, the broken dreams of a bygone era.

I cross an empty expanse of rotting tracks, dead and disturbingly silent, a demilitarized zone between Gotham and the Fringe's sprawling shithole. The last steel rail passes under my trudging feet.

A century old billboard swings from a rusted water tower. It is scrawled with a thousand curses, crude, fucking figures, and a bold, red swastika. I pass under its shadow.

I'm on the Fringe. I'm in Old Town.

The Badge is not respected here. The Badge is not brought here. When GCPD wants someone from the Fringe, they send the Riot Squad…or bounty hunters.

But I'm bringing no one in for questioning. I am taking no prisoners. I will bring my interrogation straight through Stalton's door. Already my heart is pulsing, lusty, yearning for the thrill.

I don't need this Badge anymore. I pull it from my wallet, a bronze, burnished star in my palm: to serve and protect. I think of all it stands for, of justice and honor and peace…of the mockery the GCPD has made that vow. Of the countless brave officers who have died redeeming it. Of the pride and glory it personifies.

But mostly, I think of Gordon.

It is March 29th. It is thirteen years ago. Slowly, door by door, I am leaving Jane C. Arkham Memorial Women's Correctional Facility.

A squad car sits outside the prison, idling in the abandoned drive. I am clean, my legs shaven, wearing to the bra the exact clothes I walked in through these same gates three months ago. The last locked door opens before me. Gordon stands there, his haggard face more worn and weathered than I have ever seen it, before or since.

I do not care. I waste no pity on those undeserving. I continue walking.

"Paltron," he says, thinking perhaps I have not seen him.

It's fifty-seven miles from the Prison to Gotham City. Fifty-seven long miles along four-lane highways, thundering traffic, toxic fumes of gasoline. I am ready to walk it all.

"Palton!" He pulls the car in front of me, rolling down the window.

I walk around it. I had ridden in that beat-up cruiser numberless times over our four year partnership. But always in the front. The last trip I made in the back, handcuffed, a sheet of bullet-proof glass cold and silent between us. Hell of a way to end a partnership.

"Paltron, get in the car. Please get in the car."

"Go fuck yourself, Jim." I say, never letting my eyes leave the road.

For five faithful miles he follows me, urging me to let him take me back.

Traffic careens around us. Night has fallen. His flashers blink rhythmically with my unwavering steps.

"Paltron, please. Get in the car. I'll take you home." His voice never whines, never begs. He barely raises it above a mellow whisper and it drowns in the cacophonous chorus of blaring horns and the roaring of the freeway.

"Stay the fuck away from me." I hiss.

The cruiser drops behind me. For a moment I am victorious, the conqueror. I need no one. I accept no help, no sympathy, no pity. I don't need it, and I reject it wholly. I am alone. Horribly alone.

My shadow stretches forever in front of me. The cruiser is parked on the shoulder, the flashers still pulsing their melancholy message. "Paltron!" Gordon barks, his voice growing harsher. "It's fifty-five miles to Gotham. Just get in the car!"

My lips twitch in a silent sneer. For a moment, our eyes meet, and there is anger and pity in his stern gaze. I turn.

"You've got to report to MCU by eight am, Paltron." He reminds me sternly, standing inside the opened driver's door. "For parole. You'll never get there in time." I stop, drawn back by a loathesome lodestone, pausing against my will.

"I'll hitchhike, thanks."

He laughs harshly, the sound empty and hollow between us. "On 47? Everyone knows Memorial's on this road. I've heard seven calls over the scanner already about a possible runner. No one's going to pick you up."

Wordlessly I shake. He opens the passenger door. I am defeated.

The flashers fade. We are driving.

"We found the…bodies." He says quietly "And the cell. They molested him, didn't they?"

I am silent. A district attorney, a judge, a courtroom of reporters could not drag Angel's secret from me. Gordon will not. But my silence says everything. I am betrayed.

"Jesus, Paltron." Gordon says. "Wouldn't it have been easier just to tell us?"

I stare out the window, the luminescent lines of traffic burning in my eyes. I tell myself it is the unending glare making my eyes hot and hollow, nothing more.

"You meet with the DA on Tuesday," he continues. "We're…reopening the case in light of, of the circumstances. Dent is still… willing… to represent you." He casts me a glance in the review mirror, either not daring to face me or too uptight to take his eyes off the road. I've known him long enough that it is a mixture of both.

"I'm not going," I choke.

"You don't have a choice," he says after a pregnant pause.

"I said I'm not going."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not allowed within twelve hundred yards of a school or a fucking daycare! Oh, SHIT!" My throat is bursting, burning. I kick the glove compartment, spilling the registration papers and the mileage log across the floor. Tears flood down my twisted face, I am sobbing into the window, I cannot breathe, I cannot see. I am crushed beneath the weight of my stigma: I'm a woman. I'm a marine. I'm a cop…and now I'm a goddamned, fucking child molester.

There are rapists. Murderers. Dealers and Pimps. Mob. Judges. Councilmen. Senators. A Governor…and they have chosen me. The sin and shame of an entire city rests now on my shoulders. Twenty-seven people die a day in Gotham due to gang related violence…I am innocent, and yet I am sacrificed.

My blood is tainted. I am no one's savior.

"We found his clothes, his blood, hair, skin cells, everything!" Gordon barks. "They were all over your apartment, all over your mattress-" He stops, panting at the fury of his outburst. "What the hell were we supposed to think?"

"How could you think that you've known me-"

"And I know evidence when I see it! Christ, Paltron, do you know what it looked like?"

I sob against the doorframe, gasping for air.

"The boy's in protective custody." He says tersely. "CPS and SVU are handling it."

"Angel…"his name is a dying prayer, my last hope, my only love.

"You are not to contact him. There's a restraining order and a warrant already signed. Any calls, any messages, Paltron," his gaze is cold and fixed. "You come yards of his location and I'm taking you straight back to Memorial."

"Angel," I choke.

Gordon says nothing. We ride in silence.

The dull hum of the car ceases. I stir.

I wake, Angel's eyes disappearing into the haunting, glorious sight of Gotham's breathtaking skyline. She spirals into the starless sky, cold, deadly and cruel. A lonely tomb for my abandoned Angel. I have only traded my Hell for his.

The thought of his boyish innocence, as utterly alone and wretched as I am…

Tears fall again, flowing unhindered down my cheeks.

Gordon's kind eyes brim with compassion. "Paltron," he begins, reaching a hesitant hand to comfort me. He holds me against his chest as I weep…

But I am Rachael, I am Mara. His empty embrace fills me only with disgust.

"Don't touch me," I spit, wrenching away to open my car door and blinking back the hot tears that glaze and prickle my lidless eyes.

I spare him no second glances. I don't look back. Angel is taken. My promise broken.

I walk alone in Gotham, lips set, eyes dry. I will not weep again until Aaron Lawless' voice breaks, wracked with sobs over the static of the phone, a bullet clenched tightly in my quaking fist.

I do not see Gordon for six years.

I am in Old Town. In less than seven hours, I will kill again. I stare at the badge in the shadow of that swinging swastika, making to drop it from my hand.

But I cannot let go.

I place it again in my wallet.

Not for Jim Gordon, a good man and a good cop, a man so solid and stoic he can bend no rules, not even for his closest friends. Not for Art Jamison, my first Captain, willing to take a chance on the chanceless, leaving behind his kindness like a grandfather, his Beretta like a legacy…Not even for Aaron Lawless, my last and latest partner, perhaps the closest thing I have now to a friend…

I keep it for Jimmy Connolly, a murdered rookie cop…my Angel.

It's the only link to him I have.


	6. Chapter 6

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 24th

18:56 EST

Styx Street Slaughterhouse

Stalton's place is hidden in the old slaughterhouse.

I am perched across the street, high in a rusted water tower. I see every movement from here, the cars, the men…they walk below me, their secret actions made naked and bare. I am a hawk, circling my prey. At any moment, I may fall with a cry and a rush of wings, swooping down and raining my destruction on the guilty. The Joker killed an Angel. He awoke a Valkyrie.

Darkness falls. Fuck. I need IR. I wonder fleetingly if Stalton has them…in the failing light, my binoculars are useless. Yet still I wait. Five cars have come. I have counted 14 men entering. Twelve left again. Stalton, plus two. At least. Who knows how many are waiting with him in the shadows?

I peer down at the sprawling mess of the house. For a moment, I see it as it was, a century ago, when the Fringe was a bustling industrial sector, black smoke belching from locomotives, factory chimneys and the smell of soot, shit, and flowing blood are overwhelming. The tracks pass by from the north, the corrals beginning there, their live burdens unloaded and shepherded into the individual pens, each ending in a long, narrow islet with an iron gate, room only for one animal to pass at a time. The inspector stands there, the impartial God of the Herd, judging each for its merit. They are weighed, they are measured, some are found wanting. The cattle press and shove, lowing to continue forward down the long, dusty passage into the barn. They long for the safety and comfort of their familiar pastures…

Only death awaits them.

The tracks are still visible, a dilapidated livestock car overturned in their midst. A broken crane ends in a heavy hook-for removing the cargo too weak to walk. The corrals run east to west, in many places fallen, rotting boards and tangles of wire still stand as testament to the house's horror. I tilt my head, glancing down the tracks that led to destruction…

I have my approach.

August 24th,

21:34 EST

Styx Street Slaughterhouse

Clouds darken the sky. The smell of ozone grows strong in the still air. Only a drop or two of cold rain has fallen. All evening the storm is building, the electricity rising, rising…and finally a thunderclap, the dome of the sky is rent with forked, leaping lightening.

She is here.

I abandon my perch. My feet find the skeletal rails of the abandoned track. I follow it north. I cross Styx.

I've entered Hell.

The twelve foot tall chain link is cut and rusted in many places. It offers no protection. I slink through a rent in the fence, winding carefully through the coiled barbed wire. I stalk warily through the darkness, the lightning showing me my way. No rain has fallen. For now, the night spews her anger unheeding.

Perhaps later she will weep.

I am down on my belly, crawling like a snake. I twist past abandoned cars, empty oil drums, the ground a pounded dust of still stinking shit of century dead cattle. It has been seventeen years since Pakistan, but the slithering is cool and familiar, my body sliding liquid and sensuous over the parched ground.

Three men stand together on the perimeter, a trashcan fire lit between them. My crawl is stopped, seconds go by, minutes…time is agonizingly slow. Thunder rumbles as I inch forward, serpentine. Finally they are feet from me… Lightning explodes directly over us. From the silt and soil, the garbage strewn gutter, from the ash I rise. Hello, boys.

They start.

And fall. Art's Beretta is gripped firmly in the butt of my palm. Thunder and a silencer cover the gunshots. I touch each neck for a pulse, but the holes over their empty eyes tell me the shot was true. Art's Beretta has only failed me once. It never will again.

Too late I see their radios. Damn. I stoop and rise, holding one stained set in my hand. The storm continues to rage, the sky boiling with angry, black clouds. Changes in atmospheric pressure effect short wave radios-that's why emergency broadcasts are usually aired over AM instead of FM: they carry farther with a much more reliable signal. These radios aren't cheap by any means, but enough interference from a storm such as this could possibly render them ineffective.

August 24th

22:08 EST

Styx Street Slaughterhouse

My feet crunch noisily on gravel. Two naked, scissoring lesbians stare brazenly up at me from the cover of a Cyrillic porn magazine. Slowly the tome is lowered, and I stare into the face of the watchman. His hand moves quickly from its incriminating resting place and he stands, grunting in irritation and surprise.

Bastard. I know that face: handsome and heartless Dmitri Dostoevsky. I know his CV: Battery. Assault with a deadly weapon. Multiple counts of rape. He's been at large since Fear Night…and it takes all my self-control not to shoot the fucker on site.

He looks at the radio hung on the chair in confusion—he has heard no calls. He glances at me suspiciously, knowing I could not have passed the perimeter undetected. He radios for his friends and gets nothing but static. This Stalton is no fool—his men are well trained. Warily he asks me my name and my purpose, and our mutual friend Ben does all the talking. But still he is hesitant, calling again for the perimeter.

I point back the direction I came, towards the faint glow of a far-off fire, where three bodies and my coveralls lay, coated in filth. He has no reason to be suspicious. The storm is interfering with the radio signals, he shrugs. Can't raise them, I'll have to search you again, basic security measures-

I warn him I am armed, the Beretta holstered in the small of my back. Basic security measures, I say. He laughs humorlessly, taking the weapon, and pats me down.

He pays special attention to my ass and thighs, meeting my eyes as he does so. Basic security measures…his eyes are wolfish, and he grins. I raise an eyebrow but say nothing. Once I'm in I'll get my fill of blood…. But for now I need Horny here to give me the clear over the radio…

He raises Stalton. "Bitch here wants to see you…she's got cold, hard cash and a great ass." His gleaming eyes burn over my figure again. "She's packing a decent semi-automatic…"

I do not listen to the conversation, my eyes are fixated on the thumb over the call button, the whitening of the knuckle, the tension of the tendons, the pulsing of the muscles…His life-and misplaced lust-will end when that pressure releases.

He sees me eyeing him intently. Mistaking my interest he moves closer. His face is inches from mine, hand raised to his ear, thumb still pressing firmly against the call button.

"—yeah we're had a problem with the radios, some interference from the storm—"

Art's Beretta lies unloaded on the chair, the bullets scattered across the glossed pages of naked, sprawling girls. Dostoevsky sees me unarmed, helpless, and at his mercy. He thinks I am willing. He has been lusting for some real action, and the apparent intensity of my stare was all the invitation he needed…

Shit.

I have to play along until the call is ended. I need him alive…as long as it takes to clear me.

He stalks me in slow circles, coming nearer and nearer. I turn, facing him, our eyes locked. He comes behind me, sliding a lean arm around my waist.

His free hand finds my face, and I lick the palm as it caresses my quivering mouth, my pursed lips widening and sliding down with the pressure. His fingers explore my teeth, my cheek, then slide down to my neck. I loll my head back, leaning my open mouth back towards his. I turn. Again I our gazes lock.

His boss' ignored voice blips in and out over the channel. He is no longer listening.

My hands are on his back, inching slowly towards his belt, all the while that burning look never leaving his eyes. He has me only seconds from where he wants me, needs me…if only someone would let him hang up that damn radio…if only he could drop it like me to the ground, then his slavering mouth could find mine instead of just graze inches from it, still muttering affirmatives…

Hang it up, I tell him with my eyes, pressing against him. You already have an excuse…

Hang up and die, Dmitri.

I pull a little away from him. I feel his heart hammering as my fingers undo his belt. I saw the knife on my approach, still twenty feet away. I would have shot the bastard point blank after the call ended, regardless…but I know this creep's file—can see the high schooler's screaming face he raped on her prom night, her disheveled, three-hundred dollar hair falling down in her face, fake eyelashes dripping in her tears. Broken. Like my Angel. That same, heartless lust lurks now in his hideous, burning eyes. He brought this upon himself. I'm not the first woman he has found alone and seemingly vulnerable…

But I will be the last.

I slide my fingers across the skin under his waistband, groping for his knife. He trembles at my light touch. He glares into my eyes, his desire consuming him. He thinks me a vixen, a goddess, Aphrodite herself come down to worship him. He is no mere man but a god, about to receive his due…

He is wrong. I find him debauched, despicable, and worthy of death. It is coming quickly.

He can wait no longer. "You're cutting out," his voice is cool and crisp, and his eyes never leave mine as that thick, whitened thumb releases the pressure on the radio. It slips, forgotten, through his fingers.

We shudder simultaneously, anticipating two very different thrusts.

He doesn't scream when the knife punctures his kidney—he can't. The body's first response to that level of visceral pain is immediate inhalation. "Did you really think it would be that easy?" I hiss, unblinking. "You're a godfucking bastard and every one of the whores you've screwed and beat all thought the same thing…they were just too afraid to do it." I spit in his ear as I shove him roughly to the ground, his eyes wide in horror. He has only another sixty seconds of consciousness, maybe another few minutes to live…

But even sixty seconds can be an eternity. Anyone who takes advantage of a woman or a child forfeits his right to call himself a man. This horny bastard has spent the last fifteen years of his life placing his name among the worst of men. His gasping face flickers in my anger, and for a fleeting moment I see Angel's father…

December. Thirteen years ago. The dead woman with green eyes has been in the morgue not twenty-four hours, and it will be another twenty-four before I stumble screaming through the doors of Gotham Memorial, Angel deathly pale and twitching in shock…

I am in my small bathroom, hot water pattering behind me, steam fogging up the mirror. My hair is long and my eyes bloodshot. I am sitting on the closed toilet seat, head on my knees, hugging myself, weeping. It's your own fault you're so fucking upset, I hiss. What did you expect? Did you really think you would get to keep him?

But no retort comes to that burning, rhetorical question. I can't breathe, the shock of the silence crashing over me. Yes. Yes! I scream. I wanted to keep him oh God I just want a kid even one is one too much to ask—!

I sob, falling from the seat to the hard floor, gasping from the shock of pain and the truth. I press my trembling hands against my heaving stomach, feeling the shrapnel scars that stole motherhood from me at age twenty. Just one, one would be enough why can't I just have him I need him—

I held the boy against my chest for nearly twenty hours in the station. His bastard of a father was called in for questioning. He already had a history: Battery. Assault. Attempted Murder. There was no doubt in anyone's minds who was guilty. But Gerald had alibis…three drinking buddies. The neighbors heard raised voices. Gerald admitted to a fight. But he had left the house by noon…the body wasn't discovered until ten. Postmortem set the time of death at eight pm.

Gerald walks smugly into the interrogation room, casting his arrogant gaze over us, knowing he is safe. We chafe and shake, knowing there is nothing we can do. The only witness to the crime is a small child, eight or nine, silent as stone. They tried to take him from me, let a child psychologist examine him, but he whimpered soundlessly and dug sharp nails into my back until I cried out in pain. I sit the examination with him, his head still laid against my breasts. Dr. Quinzel probes him with questions, but he turns his face into my chest and shuts his eyes.

"What's his name?"

"We don't know," Gordon says lightly. "And we can't risk asking the father. We'll only rouse suspicions."

"A name is important," she says. "I don't think we'll be able to foster enough trust without one."

Enough trust? I wonder, looking at the child who refuses to be separated from me. One of his eyes peeps open, peering up at me. Then—he smiles! The corner of his tiny mouth curves, and he nestles closer against me, pale lids and lashes covering his expressive eyes. He trusts me…

"Just tell us what you can," Gordon's tired voice rings.

"You haven't given me much to work with."

"Dr. Quinzel, please," he urges.

"Post traumatic stress," she says. "That's to be expected, of course." Then she turns to me. "It may be years before he speaks."

Gordon sighs and meets my eyes. We don't have years. We now have less than four hours to release Gerald. Without convincing evidence, the bastard will walk…and the most we could do for this boy would be suggest he be enrolled in psychotherapy before knowingly handing him over to the man who killed his mother.

"How long have you known him?" she finally asks, surveying me with a look of disgust and detachment, appalled that I would cross the patient/provider boundary so extremely.

"Maybe twenty hours," I whisper.

"Attachment disorder," she states crisply. " Association by identity. He has made a psychological choice to accept you as his mother-figure, replacing the one he lost."

"Where does that leave us?" Gordon asks.

"At square one," she snaps. "It tells us his mother's dead and he watched it. It will take years to coax the truth out of him—assuming he hasn't forgotten. Memories are like software—traumatic events of this nature are either stored away subconsciously under the surface, or erased completely. You'd need weeks, years to examine him properly, longer to rehabilitate…" she sighs, glaring at me as though she can read my rebellious thoughts. "That child needs fulltime psychotherapy indefinitely, perhaps even for the rest of his life. It's the best hope you have for giving him a normal life."

He had chosen to forget. Chosen me to replace, to become his mother. They would force him to remember, to re-live that choice and that day…wouldn't it be kinder, I think, pressing him closer with a sudden pang, just to let him forget?

"Thank you, Dr. Quinzel," Gordon sighs, showing her to the door. "We'll do what we can…"

That bitch leaves with a slow shake of her head. The angelic boy stirs again in my arms, relaxing his desperate, vice-like grip. He knows, somehow, that danger is gone…

Replacing the one he lost…Yes, I think, staring down at his pale, sleeping face, the gentle curve of his jaw, the perfect line of his delicate nose. I choose this. I choose you. He trusts me because he knew, somehow, that I was looking just as desperately for him… For six years I have known I will never hold, never kiss a child of my own. I would never be a mother…

I am Sarai. I am Elizabeth. And like them I too have conceived. He is finally mine, and I love him. No newborn mother's stare has ever held so much wonder and release. I wrap him tighter in my GCPD blazer, nestling him closer in my arms, and I gently kiss his weary head, breathing in the sweet smelling scent of his curls. I don't stop to think who may be watching, don't care if my co-workers think I've suddenly gone soft, don't care if that bug-eyed witch doctor turns at the door and sees me. His dark eyes flit open, staring sleepily up into mine. I am lost in their soft stare, their impossible depths and flitting lashes, knowing somehow—somehow—I've found the love of my life: My savior. My child. My Angel. I am redeemed.

But I didn't get to keep him. Didn't get to take Angel home. Instead I surrendered him against my will, against my conscience, against even my own stubborn selfishness…

Twenty-four hours. Gerald leaves the interrogation room as comfortable and cocky as can be. He knows he's gotten away with it. He rounds the corner, and stops dead at the sight of Angel, and that smirk wipes off his face, turning an ugly puce. He's in deep shit, and he knows it.

My blood turns to ice. The bastard killed her. There is no doubt about it. Angel shudders at the change in my posture, cuddling closer, rubbing his face in my shirt. Then he looks up, and his hart's eyes widen in horror and in fear. His little fingers clench tighter around my blazer. The tension is thick enough, the silence so menacing that the hustle of the office grows dim, then silent.

Everyone is watching us. I feel Angel's chest tighten, his heart heaving.

Gerald licks his lips, his eyes darting.

Then—he changes! It is so sudden I blink in astonishment. He stoops down, less intimidating, his face softening, his voice lowering in pitch and timbre, safe and seductive…

"Hey," he says, looking straight into Angel's transfixed eyes, opening his arms. "C'mere."

"Hey, it's alright, kiddo. C'mere. Let's take you home," Angel trembles. I try to pull him closer but he resists…

No, Angel. No. It's all wrong. Don't go with him—!

"It'll be okay. I promise. C'mon," Gerald croons lowly, his arms still out, willing, waiting, he looks all the world like a concerned and compassionate father…

Angel trembles again. He is leaning, teetering…

No, Angel. No. Please no. Don't leave me, Angel please don't leave me—!

Suddenly he is gone, running and crying out flung into Gerald's arms and sobbing, sobbing into his shoulders, still wrapped in my blazer he is carried away screaming, Gerald rubbing his back and comforting him as he walks away down the steps I follow empty and staggering in agony as my Angel leaves me…

"I guess we were wrong," Gordon sighs heavily, watching them leave. "He didn't do it, after all."

I say nothing. I cannot.

I look down at the scars again. They spread down my abdomen, my thighs, and my right knee, fleshy and pink, transparent and shining in the light. For six years I have thought they took everything from me—a career, a husband, a hope—but I was wrong. Only now am I completely empty. Angel left me…and that betrayal cuts me even colder and crueler than laying in a Navy Hospital learning through goddamned facebook that the man you gave your virginity to—the man who promised to spend his life with you—has found another woman without scars who isn't sprawled on her ass in a body cast, who still has her uterus and two fucking ovaries to make her woman enough for him, to bear the children who should have been yours…

I thought I knew emptiness. We have now become intimate friends.

I sniff and stand, wiping snot and tears across my face, breath still hitching. The only thing Angel wanted more than a mother was a loving father. That's why he left me, I comfort myself, the words sounding hollow. The only reason. He wanted both and had to choose. I wasn't his choice…

But I wanted him. Still want him. I can feel his soft weight and gentle breath against my skin. I have never wanted anything more. Never. I pull back the shower curtain, wadding my clothes up to throw them across the room and my hand is suddenly damp.

Pink.

Blood. Blood on the crotch of my pants. Small, tiny spots hardly visible against the navy cloth. But I don't have periods. Can't have periods. Haven't since Pakistan, and that was six years ago…

How?

Angel in my arms, his perfect face laid against my shoulder, his liquid, deep eyes open and staring up at me. One hand rests gently on his chest, the other pressed under his head, over my heart…he is sitting in my lap. For nearly twenty-four hours. And the whole time, his rectum is slowly leaking blood.

I stagger, dazed.

That godfucking bastard. I know no thoughts I am only driving careening through traffic towards the house where Angel's mother died, her green eyes glaring up at me, pressing this burden on me from beyond the grave and I have failed her failed Angel failed everyone…I am shaking I am angry I intend to kill them kill them all—

I slam the brakes, the car whipping sideways over the curb. I don't park, don't pull the keys, I run to the house. I pray I'm not too late-

"Stop crying you little girl you know you like it you sick little kid you like it don't you you like to be fucked because you're so fucked up—"

I find him face down, sobbing, his shirt flipped up over his head and his pants twisted and shoved down to his ankles, and one of those bastards sodomizing him, his disgusting balls on my Angel's thighs, grunting and laughing. Laughing.

He dies laughing. I break his neck and fling him across the bed before anyone can respond to the clattering of the broken window. Angel is screaming, feet pound down the hallway. I shoot the first in the kneecap, the second in the thigh. Gerald knocks aside my arm and the lamp explodes. He slaps me across the face, I spin and sprawl to the floor. He grabs my hair and drags me, drags me towards the kitchen where the knives are-

I twist. I trip him with my legs. He falls. He is shouting to his friends for help to destroy the evidence the cops are coming—he stands again, my nails in his leg, running and thumping down the hall, trying to shake me. He reaches the counter, his hand outstretched…

He falls again, the knives scattering across the floor. He throws me into the countertop and I stagger, falling down the cabinet doors. His hand finds a thirteen inch blade, serrated and deadly. He lunges to stab me but meets my outstretched hand, impaling his own heaving throat on the three inch tip of the paring knife.

His eyes widen in surprise. He coughs.

I kick him off and stagger back down the hall, knives in hand. The other two are gasping, struggling to stand-one raises a Colt .45, I break his finger, his hand, his arm…

I am fury. I am vengeance.

No hesitation. I plunge the knives in. I don't just castrate them. I take it all. They scream like dying horses as the metal excises the entirety of their pelvic bowls, blood and urine gushing in a viscous, nauseating flow. They fall, both femoral arteries cut, bleating and shrieking…they do not scream for long.

In the kitchen, Gerald is dragging himself to the door. He will never escape me. I am death. I am a hunter. I pounce on my prey, my hands like talons find his feet and I rush him backwards down the hallway towards the scene of my slaughter, his hands scrabbling across the linoleum, reaching for the remaining knives.

"You. Are. Sick!" I shout, straddling him, shaking him, one knee in his groin, blood is bursting in bubbles from his lips, the paring knife caught in the cartilage rings of his trachea. "Fucking bastard!" I scream a thousand curses at him, my snarling teeth inches from his face, the fury of my tears and spit spattering his skin. My fist crashes into his jaw. More bubbles of blood, he raises his hands to defend himself. "It's called pain!" I roar, "Get used to it—" I punch him again, "because I'm sending you Straight. To. Hell!" every syllable is accentuated with a blow.

"He trusted you!" I seethe, that ruined face between my hands. I am shaking it, shaking it and teeth are dropping from the gaping mouth. "He fucking trusted you, you cock-sucking bastard!" One more lunge of the knife, and I take that hideous, hairy lump of flesh and force it down his jaws. His hands struggle against mine, pawing me away…

I drop him, shaking in rage. I step back, teeth still barred. Sputtering and gagging, he chokes on his own genitalia.

Even in my anger, it is justice. It is poetry…

It still is.

Dmitri Dostoevesky lays sprawled before me, eyes wide in death. Somewhere in Gotham City, the seventeen year-old whose virginity he stole is vindicated. Does the fact of his death change anything? No. She will have those memories forever…

But here is one predator that will never hunt again. I reload Art's Beretta, and toss the disgusting magazine onto the corpse's defiled face. It is a fitting shroud.

August 24th

22:17 EST

Sytx Street Slaughterhouse

Art's Beretta is again on my back as I approach that final door. There will be no turning back. Once I enter, I must see this through, no matter who, no matter how many. I spare the corpse one last glance, and push through the rotting wood.

The long house is dark and eerie. The only light is flashes of lightning that blaze through the holes and cracks in the crumbling roof far above, casting eerie, shifting shadows. It is haunting and terrible. My heart beats faster in fear. I am open. I am blind. What am I walking into?

I pass broken hooks, chains and grapples. Enormous, dried bones litter the walkway, femur, scapula, vertebrae…The house reeks of death. Long ago the Hebrews build a temple as a dwelling place for their god. I wonder fleetingly what fools in Gotham erected this structure for Satan.

There is an odd, breathy sound from the numerous pens up ahead, like wind blowing across the gaping, open jaws of Hell. I round the corner and I freeze.

Dogs.

There must be twenty of them, skeletal, starving, snarling pit bulls. They lunge behind wire cages, maddened by the fury of their hunger. Looking at me they slaver and shake, strings of spit frothing from their gaping mouths. Horrific scars mar their thin coats…both the souvenirs of their countless, brutal fights, and the burns and lashes that drove them to such depravity. There is nothing left in their yellow eyes but rage and an insatiable thirst for blood.

I shudder. I do not pity them, simply understand.

They continue to bray as I walk past.

August 24th

22:28 EST

Stalton's Armory

I reach the end of the stalls, passing the sand arena and bleachers where the handlers loose their blood-crazed dogs. Here at the end there is a newer excavation and metal stairs leading down beneath the dirt floor. I descend slowly, rapping on the fireproof door.

"Dmitri? Is that you?" It is the voice from over the radio. A small panel opens, and we stare eye to eye. It slides shut again, locks twisting and grinding, then the door itself swings slowly inward.

"Come on in, little lady," Stalton drawls lazily as I slink through the doorframe. His face hardens. "Dmitri didn't come with you?"

"He had a pressing engagement with Ingrid and Nastia," I state evenly. "He hated to keep them waiting."

He chuckles good-naturedly. "That euro-trash bastard and his porn," he shakes his head. "Well, what's a trick like you doing in a joint like mine, ay?" His eyes twinkle in his humor. He is not frightening but conversational, not intimidating but kind. I am not prepared for this.

But I remember a charred car and a judge, exploded hospitals, a desperate search for a missing DA and his assistant, twenty-four hours of grief mourning Gordon before he miraculously returned from death, bringing with him the Devil himself…the chill of two laden passenger ferries given the choice to live or kill. I see the dogs, starving and satanic. His superficial kindness will not save him. Wordlessly I hand him twenty crisp, hundred-dollar bills.

"Ah," Stalton says. "I understand perfectly, Miss-"

"Paltron."

He nods. "Alright then, Miss Paltron. I'll show you around the supply room…"

August 24th

22:43 EST

Stalton's Armory

Stalton is ex-military. Army, to be exact. He was in Iraq for the Second Gulf War, consulting both as an engineer and security buff for Blackwater. He recognizes my training immediately, whistling at my service record. "Marines, ay?" he shakes his head, lighting up. "Damn. That's some pretty tough shit. Where did they have you stationed?"

"Pakistan?" He grins, pulling the Marlboro from his mouth. "You ever cross the border to go Laden huntin'?"

"Mostly we followed convoys, guarded politicians." I say tersely, shouldering an AK-47 from the racks, testing her feel. She is beautiful and deadly, heavy but not burdensome…

"Shit, girl. A Kalishnikov?" He whistles. "I don't sell a lot of those anymore. They're 'anti-American.' Leave it to Hollywood to shovel that shit. My dad died in the Cold War fighting Russians, but that gun there is still the best damn assault rifle ever made. I don't have any problems with who makes it."

Stalton talks about the gun, its uses, its history. The hilarity of CIA buying them black market from USSR satellites…then selling them to the Afghanis to use against the Russians. The sobering thought of how many Americans died by them twenty years later in the first Gulf War. "It's what you call ironic, really," he says disgustedly. "People should know better. You can't just ally with someone because you have a common enemy. Christ, once that enemy's gone they'll just turn on you." He knows his shit, and he's passionate about it. Had we met in a different time, different place, I might have bought him a beer and swapped stories with him…

"How much do you want for it?"

"Four hundred." He says, shrugging. "But I'll give it to you for three," he winks, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to smile. "Think of it as a military discount."

"Here," he says briskly, as though suddenly remembering. "I've got to show you something. I know you'd be able to appreciate this." He leads me to a back room and flips on the lights. Pay dirt. The fucker is loaded with military hardware, all the initials from IR to RPG. Five days ago, I stood not twenty feet away from the governor's limousine when it exploded into metal shards and hot, belching flames. A high whine, a small puff of white smoke…And now here she is. Lovingly I fondle the unfeeling barrel of the launcher. Hello, beautiful…

"Where the Hell you get this shit, Stalton?" I turn.

He smiles enigmatically. "Professional secret, sorry."

"Damn." I pick up a grenade, tossing it in the air and weighing it in my hand.

"Careful!" he barks.

I smile tauntingly. "Stalton, you have them sealed." Each is fitted tightly with a plastic cap, holding the pin snugly in place. "And you're the one fucking smoking."

He shrugs and laughs at his own foolishness. "Old habits die hard."

He has plastic explosives by the crate-load. "How many of these things to you think it took to blow up the Legacy?" I ask disinterestedly. Was the bastard behind it? Shit. He had to have sold the equipment…

He shakes his head. "It would take thousands. And I've sold enough…Christ. I would hate that. I don't think I could live with myself…but even thousands still wouldn't do the job right. I read the reports from NIST in 2005, ramming FEMA's ass for the World Trade Center report. For a structure to completely intercalate—I mean, it looked just like a telescope folding down…" He shakes his head, taking a long drag on the cigarette. "God. All those people."

I respect him against my will.

"Fuck. I hope the Taliban doesn't claim responsibility. No more war in the Middle East for me. If those fuckers still can't get a democracy going…well, let 'em live in a dictatorship. It's what they deserve." He lets out a puff of smoke, venting his mouth and his frustration.

"What do you think did it?" I ask casually, placing the explosives back in the crate.

"The Twin Towers fell because the jet fuel ignited. It was just hot enough to soften the steel infrastructure—you know, hat trusses, floor joists, the anchors the entire building hung on. They softened, and the weight of the top floors crushed them. From there, the building just surrendered to gravity…"

He shakes his head again, shuddering. "What goes up must come down. Damn. Ain't that perverse?"

"You're saying the Legacy burned." I am confused. Misplaced. I came here for information on the Joker. I came to kill. Instead I find almost an ally, almost a friend. A man who respects a woman, a service record…even life. He is nothing, nothing like the Joker or his minions.

"More like melted. I didn't go into architecture, but I know my damn physics. I've done security contracting work—antiterrorism stuff for Blackwater. You'd have to place plastics along every floor, every joist…and even then you're just blowing up every floor one at a time. You think some secretary's not going to notice that? And there's about thirty seconds of Legacy footage from Channel 18. It's all aerial shots, but there's no evidence. You'd have to blow every floor simultaneously, and there'd be windows breaking, debris shooting out…but the windows are only collapsing on the lower floors as it sinks. It wasn't just damn similar it was identical to 9/11."

"You'd need a heat signature in the thousands," I state, my eyes back on the launcher. "Even your suppler couldn't work that sort of magic." I trace my fingers down its long barrel. I shudder, knowing this is the firepower available to our enemies. Fuck. And the GCPD have been fighting crime with toys all these years. Suddenly the declaration of martial law seems almost welcome…

"You'd need serious power. Surface to air sort of shit. And that would be pretty fucking noticeable. But whatever it was, it was concentrated in the core of the building, maybe even below ground. Bu you think security's not going to notice that, either? Not since 1993. World Trade Center took care of that one, too. No way that's going to happen again. Every building in this city got inspected for safety precautions back in the nineties, and again in the early 2000's. Cost a ton of money—the taxpayers complained like Hell."

He pauses for a moment, watching me toy with the sights on the rocket launcher.

"Naw. It had be underground. That's the only thing I've been able to think of. Something melted the core, and she fell."

"Yeah?" I ask. Was Stalton just guessing, or showing off? If he was responsible, he might just be leading me on, impressing me with his 'hunches.' I glance at him surreptitiously from the corner of my right eye. No. He was simply musing. "But what the hell could do that?"

"Fear Night."

I turn sharply as he lets out a puff of smoke. It hits my face and I sneeze. I begin to cough. "What?" I choke.

"Whatever the hell happened in the Narrows happened pretty damn quickly. We're talking about a weapon that could vaporize millions of gallons of water through miles of piping—hell, some of the mainlines have yet to be replaced. You have any idea how fucking hot that would have to be?"

Shit. I can't stop choking. My eyes are watering. I lean against the wall, covering my mouth. This happened yesterday, too. But then I was alone. Now, I'm in the lion's den. I can't afford to be weak…

"Sorry 'bout that." He says absently, throwing the Marlboro down and crushing it with his heel. "But I figure whatever the Hell that thing was, microwaves, ultrasound…whatever it is, it's back."

I don't respond. I can't breathe. Can't speak. I should've got some fucking antibiotics…

Agony. My lungs are crushing, burning, my lips turning blue. My knees collapse. I fall. Stalton's arms are around me hoisting me up by shoulders and knees. My vision tunnels as he carries me back up the steps like a rag doll. The last thing I feel, the last thing I see is Stalton's rough hand on my face, his worried eyes looking down into mine…

August 24th

23:00 EST

Styx Street Slaughterhouse

I am coughing gently, stirring fretfully. I wake. Angel's worried eyes slowly disappear…I blink. They are back.

Angel's eyes are gleaming, dark on white, liquid like light…

But these eyes are cloudy green. I start.

"Hey, Paltron?" I hear Stalton's voice low in my ear. "You alright?" I am lying on a stainless steel table, my legs dangling obscenely. It is much too short to be meant for a human being. He is bending over me, concern written all over his thick features, one hand laid lightly on my right breast—

I shudder and pull away.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed. "I just, uh, had to rub on a lot of ammonia…"

"I smell like piss," I croak, groggily sitting up, my eyes tearing from the rising fumes.

"Yeah, well. It's one of the main ingredients of urine…and smelling salts. Straight is cheaper, and they use it on the dogs," he eyes at me curiously. "You alright?"

"Fucking fine," I say, leaning over my knees to spit. "How long have I been out?"

"Maybe four minutes….Look, are you sure you're fine?"

"Freakin'-A," I cough.

He is rummaging through a shelf, replacing the bottle of ammonia. I look around the tiny room. I am sitting on the operating table, and the walls are lined with surgical instruments and chemicals, whips and heavy chains. In the corner, a car battery and two empty electrodes are surrounded by dry sponges. Even in this hell pit, I look back at Stalton, a strange guilt rising inside me. He could have robbed me, raped me, but he chose to save me instead.

He raises his eyes at my raging confusion.

"You surprise me," I finally choke over the ammonia fumes.

"Yeah, well," he shrugs. "What was I supposed to do? Nothing?" He cringes, almost sadly. Yet beyond the open door, the dogs are barking, howling with the epileptic flares of lightning. His two-faced, hypocritical kindness, staring back, incriminating, demanding justice.

There is a very pregnant pause. I realize now the dogs are not his.

I cough again, hacking fat drops of phlegm.

"I'll radio Carson. He's asthmatic, you know? He's usually got an inhaler on him—"

"It won't work," I whisper, standing slowly.

"Damn radios," Stalton curses. "I should've gone with a cell phone plan," he mutters to himself, raising a finger to silence me. "Let me try one more time—"

"They're not going to pick up," I whisper again.

"This must be one mother of a storm," he says, the radio still pressed to his face, staring out at the dog's crazed antics. "It's even got the dogs upset…"

But it isn't the storm. It's the scent of fresh blood that raises them to hysteria.

"It's not the storm," I say quietly, pulling Art's Beretta from under my coat. I bring the stock of the pistol into the back of his neck and he falls, the useless radio clattering from his hand.

August 24th

23:09 EST

Styx Street Slaughterhouse

Stalton wakes. I have him bound roughly, sitting against the wire of the arena. His arms are held in place by slip ties, his feet knotted together, his hands sitting out in his lap. He groans as he comes to. I offer him water.

He drinks.

"What the hell?" he asks.

"We're going to have a little talk." I state hoarsely, crouching down in front of him. Before him I have laid out the iodine, the cauterizer, and piles of bandages. I also have the car battery and sponges. I have come to far. I need to know, need to finish what I have come for…

"Who are you?" he finally asks.

"Gwen Paltron. GCPD." I flash my badge. "I need to ask you some questions."

He looks at me nervously, weighing his options. "DMITRI!" he yells.

I toss him the bastard's radio. "He's dead."

He stares at that radio for a long, long time. "You're no fucking police officer."

"You're wrong. I am," I sit down across from him, toying with the cauterizer. "But if the bad guys aren't going to follow the rules, than neither am I."

"The feral cat is always the best mouser," he whispers sadly, with that same, slow turn of his head. I feel a sudden pang. We understand each other, Stalton and I…

"What do you want?" his eyes are riveted to the flat head of the heated metal, sweat beginning to bead down his face. "What do you want?" he asks me again.

"Your supplier. Your customers. I need names, addresses. Points of contact. Everything."

"I can't tell you that." he licks his lips again, shaking his head. "No."

But you will.

I shrug and pull the pack of Marlboro's out of his shirt pocket. "Want one?" he nods, and I place it in his trembling lips.

"Let me say it so we both understand," my voice does not betray me. "You have twenty-eight knuckles on both your fingers and toes. Two ears. Two eyes. You also have two testicles…we could be here a very, very long time," I state evenly, lighting his cigarette with the cauterizer. "You were kind to me. I want to do this the easy way. But I need to know. I will know. It's just a question of how long it takes."

Stalton looks at me over the burning tip of his cigarette, the only light in the abandoned slaughterhouse. Behind us, the dogs snivel and snarl. Doubt grows in his eyes. I'm a soldier. I'm a cop. I'm a woman. He just saved my life… he sees the struggle in my eyes. He licks his lips nervously. "You wouldn't do it."

Dmitri's knife flicks. He howls in pain, blood oozing from the stub of his left pinky. I press the cauterizer deep into the flesh and the blood stops flowing, the tip blackened…

"Twenty-seven." I look directly into his eyes. They too, do not betray me. He finds no pity here.

Stalton begins to spill.

August 24th

23:40 EST

Styx Street Slaughterhouse

The arms come from a supplier, ex-military. I press him how to contact. I force him to make the call. I have a meeting in two days with a retired Lt. General about restocking grenades and the possibility of another rocket launcher. Stalton promises cash. The Lt. General is only happy to oblige. I get the names of mob bosses, their phone numbers, their weapons of choice. There are Russians, Italians, a Puerto Rican gang and a black Kingpin…

The interview is relatively painless. He rarely needs probing. He keeps his balls, his eyes, his ears, all twenty-eight joints in his feet and eight and a half of his fingers. Finally it is over, and he rests his head against the wire cages, panting.

"What now?" he croaks as I light him a final cigarette.

I look away. "I don't know."

He needs to die. But I don't have the heart to kill him.

"You aren't going to kill me?"

He isn't directly connected to the Joker. He probably wishes the Bastard was safely back in Arkham or in Hell where he belongs. But he sold military grade explosives and hardware to countless criminals, all who used them to terrify Gotham, many who turned thug for the Joker himself. He knowingly passed instruments of fear and destruction to men intending to use them on innocent civilians. Who knows how many hundreds of lives he had the power to save but refused?

I am staring again at the bronze star in my hand: To Serve and Protect. That is my duty. It was my Angel's duty.

…Stalton, what do I do with you?

His was a different sort of cruelty, a different sort of lust. He finds taking human life distasteful, but for the right price he will sell to anyone, consequences be damned. Those snarling, mistreated pit bulls reveal his principles for what they truly are: ash. As long as their owners pay their rent, as long as their torment and horrible death continues to bring him money, he is willing to look away. What was I supposed to do? Nothing? His own convictions condemn him.

He is Gotham, turning a blind eye to violence. Apathetic, uncaring, as long as nothing affects him. If he is not directly involved, he believes his hands to be clean. But it's people like him who watched Kitty Genovese die, as guilty as the bastard who stabbed her. His selfishness is sickening.

And yet—

And yet he saved my life. Is it strength, or something more sinister, that enables me to look beyond this personal merit? Can this one life, this one good deed absolve him?

"No," I finally say, not looking into his eyes as lightening flashes through the gaps overhead. "But I can't promise the same from the dogs."

He shakesis head slowly, a sad, sad smile around the burning tip of that final cigarette. Surrendering. Understanding. Conceding.

The gates are opened with a lever, releasing the pressure and turning the bottom out. The dogs must slink under the wire to get into the arena, scraping blood from their backs, incensing the fight. I lift the lever—

"Take care of yourself," Stalton whispers in the dark.

—and twist. I walk away. Above the thunder I hear a rising snarl and a scream.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…The dogs have their justice, and my hands are either as dirty or as clean as his. But I find that lie as hollow for me as it was for him in the end.

Lightning flashes again through the crumbling roof and rain begins to fall. Her anger assuaged, empty as ash, the night begins to weep.


	7. Chapter 7

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 25th

06:21 EST

Harvey James Dent Memorial Parkway

I left the Fringe early this morning in an old hardtop loaded down with plastic explosives, IR goggles, the rocket launcher, my AK 47 and ammunition for both. I spent the night in that empty hardtop, rain pounding down like machine gun fire on the roof.

We wept together, the night and I.

I left the slaughterhouse, realizing this was the first time I had killed and not enjoyed it. Stalton's death still stained my hands and my conscience. This is the first time I have killed unfueled by anger. I feel neither righteous nor vindicated. Which damns me most, I wonder, idling in early morning traffic as the sun's first rays peeked around Gotham's skyline, hazy and watery through the still rising clouds of dust and smoke, six days later. Finding release in death, or killing in cold blood…

I am 32. Single. Childless.

I am sitting in Commissioner Loeb's office, waiting. Two city police showed up at my door this morning, and brought me here with hardly a word. I am beyond nervous. I am beyond caring. Let them send me back to Memorial. It's less than I deserve…

I sit for hours. But suddenly from this dark Hell I am awoken.

The door opens, and I start: Jim Gordon! His hair is grey, his face, lined. He is still soft, mild-mannered. My mouth has fallen open…I have risen awkwardly, and I don't know whether to cringe or smile. It is so good to see a familiar face…anyone, anything! A desperate laugh dies on my lips as I remember we did not part on the best of terms…and I have begrudged him bitterly these six long years.

He sits next to me, but before I can speak, the door opens again.

"Ah! Dt. Paltron!" The Commissioner enters and extends a slender hand, shaking mine firmly. "So glad you could make it."

Gordon stirs, shooting the Commissioner an intense frown. He refuses to make eye contact with me. I wonder if I care, and decide I don't. The resentment I left him with still lingers.

"What's this about?" I ask. Detective? I have been wary of the GCPD for six years, cutting all ties. A dirty cop—a rogue cope—is worse than any offender. And my record is the worst of all. What can they possibly want from me now?

"I've been reviewing your file," Loeb says briskly. "I need to be frank with you: I'm impressed, officer. Truly impressed. Military service, four years of street experience…a shooting record that has Smithson in SWAT reeling. You're the perfect candidate," he looks at me over folded, business-like hands. "We currently have one hundred and four open positions available for an officer of your rank. I'm inviting you to apply for any of them."

Bullshit. My chest tightens in anger. Is this Gordon's idea of a joke? I disguise my sneer in a polite smile. These two unfeeling men have the power to make my life even more miserable. I must humor both of them. "You forgot the psychological profile labeling me as an unstable, homicidal maniac and the charges of sexual misconduct."

"Charges which were, I have been led to believe, dropped shortly thereafter?"

For a long time, I simply stare at him.

"Four months later," I state. "Sir."

"Correct," Loeb says, opening my folder again. "I've also spoken with Harvey Dent—your former attorney, on the details of the case. This whole WATCHDOG project was his idea," his black eyes bore straight into mine, pinning me still. "I believe Detective Gordon testified at both your trials and was influential in your release."

"Yes," We whisper together, Gordon and I.

"Then let me explain," Loeb leans forward across the mahogany desk. "I need officers. Good officers. Ones I can trust against corruption, ones willing to serve their city because she gave them a second chance. I can't find many, and I need more. This—" here he lifts my file, a brief glimpse of Harlene Quinzel's signature on an Arkham letter head, "was a one-time incident. Even the best men make mistakes, and the better the man, the more glaring the error. You were a damn good officer once, Detective Paltron. WATCHDOG wants you back. Gotham needs you back. I'm willing to start you in at your old pay, give you your old job back if you will take it—and if Gordon is willing to vouch for you."

I am shocked and silent. Loeb patiently waits my answer. He is confident. He is quick. He doesn't fuck around with courtship…

I bite my lips. Rejoin the force? Redeem myself?

For six years I have been numbed to pain and emotion. I have given up hope, waiting only for the day when Angel turns eighteen so I can see him again. But is there another light in this purgatory? Do I still…feel? Yes, I realize. I feel pain. I feel shame. Gordon would never vouch for me if he knows what I have become. And even Angel—my Angel!—would shudder and turn away.

I want this. I want out. I can feel the badge in my palm, the holster around my waist, the weight of the Kevlar on my shoulders…I look at Loeb and he is Art Jamison. A second chance. Forgiveness.

I turn to Gordon, trying to meet his eyes. I want this. I need this…Jim, please…

"No." Gordon whispers.

"Gordon—" Loeb says in shock.

"No!" Jim Gordon barks, standing abruptly. He faces Loeb, then turns to me, his voice softening. "I'm sorry, Paltron, but that's my only answer."

Loeb dismisses us both.

"Don't you walk away from me!" I shout to Gordon's retreating back. "Don't you dare, don't you dare walk away from me! Fucking face me!" I run in front of him, blocking his way, my barred teeth inches from his taciturn face.

I am shaking in humiliation and disgust. For nearly a minute, the only sound in the echoing atrium is my shallow, ragged breath. Finally, he answers me.

"You're a Killer," he elucidates slowly. "An unusual Killer. You could've just shot those men, Paltron, but you chose to torture them instead," his sad eyes never waver from mine. "I will not be responsible for that."

He shoulders past me. I let out a small scream of rage. He stops and turns back, pity written on his worn face. For one shining moment I see a younger Jim Gordon, not a partner but a friend, concerned and holding me in my tears…

"Take care of yourself, Paltron," he whispers.

Take care of yourself. Stalton's parched lips said it, too, around the ashes of a dying cigarette. But just what the fuck is it supposed to mean? I reflect, parking the hardtop in a dilapidated garage and winding my way down the coiled staircase. Is it significant? Or could it simply be coincidence?

The warm rays of the rising sun bathe my face even through the Legacy's aftermath. I need breakfast, coffee, and a newspaper to mull it over.

August 25th

07:02 EST

Starbucks Coffee

Fuck. I am coughing into a napkin, choking on thick strings of mucous. In the three minutes it takes for my latte, the thin paper is soaked through and congealed with a sickly yellow slime. I toss the disgusting napkin in the waste bin, shuddering at the bitter, tasteless residue in my mouth. I burn my tongue on the scalding coffee, desperate just to taste. I sit, silently damning my illness, and open the paper.

JOKER!

The word is in all caps, four-inch font, and bold. For a moment I am reminded of 'The Great War,' more than a century ago. I half expect the paper to yellow and crumble in my hands…But no, there is no Franz Ferdinand, no German Empire, no Lusitania…there is only the Gotham City Star laying silently in my lap, Angel's killer laughing up at me, his scarred face twisted into a sneering smile.

I skim the article, my coffee forgotten.

ERIS UNLEASHED

by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press

Gotham City Police confirmed last night that the Joker is again at large…escape cited to negligence…officials are currently investigating as to how the Joker might have fled the premises…heavy flow of emergency victims on August 19th partially to blame…system unable to hold the additional strain of 300 trauma victims. "It is with our deepest regret we announce that the patient known as the Joker has escaped from the maximum security ward of Arkham Asylum." Dr. Harleen Quinzel—

I stop and read the name again. That bitch, head psychiatrist of Arkham? She was their court-appointed psych consult 13 years ago. I can only hope she has improved since then.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel told the associated press last night. "But it is an unforgivable mistake to regret the opening of this facility to victims of the Legacy Tragedy. Arkham has been listed for nearly 30 years a potential disaster relief facility… and such an event occurred. Like many other facilities, Arkham passed the federal readiness inspection. But Gotham's need surpassed their predictions. It was only through the timely intervention of neighboring counties and their emergency services that Gotham's wounded received and are receiving treatment. We do not regret and cannot afford to regret that nearly 300 people were able to receive emergency care, without which many would not have survived. What Gotham needs to do is unite in cooperation-like the health care facilities and workers not only in our county by surrounding areas of the state-to recapture the Joker. (Assigning guilt) is not healthy psychologically and will do nothing to heal this City nor her citizens of their numerous emotional hurts…"

I skip the rest, tired of that bitch's bullshit.

IS YOUR FAMILY SAFE?

"…difficulty identifying both victims and bodies…Police caution parents to keep children indoors and in sight…always have photo identification as well as an emergency phone contact, and medical allergies on their persons…Wayne Enterprises and GC Child and Family Services are making DNA kits available free of charge at local convenience stores…

DOCTORS URGE FAMILIES TO STAY INDOORS

…similar to Ground Zero respiratory illness reported in New York City following the tragic events of September 11th, 2001. Toxic gases, asbestos, and high quantities of carcinogenic compounds were released into the air, resulting in a noxious smoke cloud that could be seen even from satellite imaging…The EPA advises to keep indoors with windows shut and sealed, avoid long exposure, especially downwind…the elderly, infants, the immuno-compromised and those with chronic respiratory conditions are advised to evacuate and seek medical attention immediately…

No fucking shit, I think, coughing again into my napkin.

The paper is threadbare. There are no classifieds, no comics, no business nor fashion sections. Many of the journalists and staff are dead…I look up to the muted news playing on the wall, and the faces are not familiar. Rebecca James, normally of the Channel 18 evening news, maintains her post at Ground Zero, speaking slowly into the microphone. But it's nearly 7:30, and it should be Trisha Tanaka's vibrant smile and famous "Good morning, Gotham!" greeting us…. She was standing less than five feet away from me when the first RPG struck the Governor's limousine-

Screaming screaming people are screaming the pavement melted ash soot belching smoke heat my skin burning hold Connolly down don't run don't run stay down stay down struggling screaming stay down stay down! smoke clears woman's eyes staring open bleeding skull split in two—

I shudder and turn away from the television, coughing and immersing myself again in the paper. Trisha Tanaka is dead. One of hundreds. One of thousands. But her face and her voice were routine to a million people in Gotham City. They say the rubble of the Twin Towers burned for months…I know the impact of her death will linger longer than the smoking reek of ash over Gotham's skyline. Every single detail of the Joker's plan was a goddamned masterstroke...

STUDENT PROTEST LEAVES 3 DEAD, 17 INJURED

A peaceful protest on GSU campus turned to tragedy last night around 10 pm. Students protesting martial law and curfew harassed both police and national guard enforcers…more than fifty were assembled at Gotham City School of Art in the quadrangle, an iconic and popular hangout for student protestors since the 1960's. Police report that shots were fired, leading to retaliation from military forces…parents of victims claim police brutality and unnecessary show of force—

And on it goes. Mayhem. Madness. Death and Despair. Cameron Shaw was right: Eris has been unleashed. Gotham is become her shrine, the acrid ash rising over her skyline as a burnt offering of appeasement. Riots. Theft. The Joker is not responsible for these: Gotham's Heart of Darkness needed only this catalyst to reveal herself…

I am disgusted.

It takes me nearly forty minutes to finish. My coffee is tepid as I turn the last leaf.

A face jumps out from the back page. My heart leaps. Angel—!

FOUR MISSING AFTER ARKHAM ESCAPE

Initial investigation has concluded the Joker escaped disguised as an EMS team member on a GCFD Emergency Services vehicle…the body of Paramedic Jennifer Hanson was discovered hidden on Arkham property, dressed in patient-issue clothing. The 3 remaining members of the Paramedic team as well as the missing ambulance have yet to be found. Believed with them is 22 year old Detective Jimmy Connolly, reported en route to Arkham Aslum at 16:31 pm August 20th, nearly 26 hours after the fall of the Legacy. GCPD Commissioner James Gordon lists their status as missing, presumed dead until convincing evidence can be provided to the contrary.

The paper says Jimmy Connolly. Lawless just called him Kid. I named him Angel. Another dead face in a city of thousands, and yet-

Tiny, feathery scars open on my arms and fingers gushing lines of viscous scarlet flesh rips from tendons Angel's nails reaching pleading screaming—

Next to my hand, a fat water drop eats slowly through the ink of the text. It is followed swiftly by another. A burning ache fills my heavy lungs and heart as I choke on my misery. Suddenly I am sobbing and I fill an entire fistful of napkins with my running eyes and nose. Yet no one notices me. I am not the only-man or woman-to be weeping here so openly. We are together, and yet so horribly alone.

"I lost somebody too," a quaking voice surprises me. Tears stop flowing in shock.

She is handsome and black, at least sixty, weathered and bent, her hazel eyes moist behind her bifocals. "My husband died at the World Trade Center, and my grandson died on Monday. He was a sophomore in high school," she purses her wrinkled lips.

"Who did you lose?"

In thirteen years I've never said the words out loud. "My son," I choke in a strangled sob. Jimmy Connolly's dark, smiling eyes stare up at me from his Academy photo. He is baby-faced, his dark curls shaven and hidden under his cap. He looks so goddamn young…

"This ain't your fault," she says sternly. "Don't you dare tell yourself diff'rently. You can't live with regret, hon," she pauses. "It didn't work for me. It won' work for you."

She is gone. The door swings shut behind her as her empty cup sinks into the waste bin like her words in my heart. I can take no comfort from her counsel.

She is wrong.

'No! NO!" Angel is clinging to me, his face buried in my shoulder.

Thirteen years…for thirteen years I have looked for a little boy, and suddenly I have found him a man. I am too shocked for tears. Thirteen years. Alone. Betrayed. Three months in Memorial….they are nothing, nothing their bitter memory washed away in his tears his eyes his desperate embrace—

Around us the ruins of the Legacy spread for blocks. Sirens, lights, ash and smoke, yet I have eyes only for the boy cradled against my chest: a goddamned rookie cop. Lawless's own partner. Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. The scales have fallen from my eyes and at last I see. I cannot kiss him hard enough, cannot hold him close enough…his name grows sweeter on my tongue with every whisper of AngelAngelAngel…

Thirteen years but he seems no heavier. I bear him easily to the waiting ambulance.

"You have to let go," I shush him, kissing his tangled hair, grey with plaster and splintered glass. He is wounded. Dehydrated. Burned. They pulled him from the ashes and dust, and he is coated with the messy afterbirth. It stains his hair, his skin, his uniform. The only color is in his eyes, dark, black eyes with wet, shining sclera. Doe-like, teary, large smears of mud now congealing around them on his pale, perfect face…

"You have to go to the hospital," his breath comes fast and hot on my skin, his gentle weight pressing into my breasts. I can feel his warmth, the rise and fall of every breath, the desperate pounding of his heart. He belongs with me, pressed against me…

"No! Don't leave me please don't leave me—!"

"You're hurt you have to go—"

"Please! Please don't leave me no don't leave me-"

"Angel," I choke in his ear, laying him down on the stretcher, wrapping him in a thick emergency blanket. His small, grasping fingers reach for me, touching my hands, my arms, tracing their scars with trembling fingertips.

"You came back for me," Angel breathes as I tighten the cinches across his legs. "You came back!" he struggles, reaching again for me as a Paramedic tapes oximetry to his hand.

"Please," Angel whimpers. "Please."

"I'll come back for you," I choke, his face in my hands, my thumbs pressed gently against the delicate skin of his eyelids…. "I will come back for you. I will find you, Angel. No matter what happens I promise I will find you." Nothing can keep me away. Nothing. Slowly, reluctantly he relents, going limp, his struggle over, his tearstained eyes reading in mine it would take death to stop me from coming to him…

His tears are salty on my lips.

I tuck his arms into the blanket, folding it around him. They tube oxygen into his nostrils, fit a nebulizer around his face. I can only see his doe's eyes, anxious and wet in fear. "I love you," I choke as I leave yet another final kiss in his curls. Each, I tell myself, is the last…his dark eyes are closed. Between the morphine and exhaustion he is finally sleeping. I tighten a last, taut vinyl strap across his waist, then turn slowly, but cannot leave. Drawn like a lodestone, I run one finger down the mask over the perfect line of his nose.

I wrench away.

I am Barren. I am Hannah. Granted a son only to lose him. Not six hours later, he would fight for his life, still bound by those four thick, black restraints. He would scream and struggle, unable to run, hardly able to sit…I had only meant to keep him safe. Secure. Twice now I have surrendered him. Twice I have lost him. I thought the first had cost me everything…

I was wrong.

I tear the last page from the paper with a sudden shredding sound, folding it gently and tucking it into my wallet behind my badge. It is the only picture of Angel I have ever had.

I am Gotham. I observe, staring stonily at the remnants of the ruined paper. I do not learn from my mistakes…

My half empty coffee cup falls with the paper into the open waste bin. I came here for answers. I found none.

August 25th,

09:37 EST

Green Street Pharmacy

I am learning.

I walk through the revolving doors of Green Street Pharmacy. They were closest to the Starbucks, and I am not waiting any longer to seek medical attention…the dead cat catches nothing.

At the counter, they are polite and professional. It's almost as if it hasn't been six days since the largest attack on American soil occurred not four miles from here, and as if one of the world's most wanted criminals hadn't escaped from a nearby maximum security facility…

They are either ignorant, unfeeling, or plain full of shit. I refuse to play.

Of course I'm here for antibiotics. No I don't have a prescription. Instead, I flash my badge and a place a crumpled napkin dripping with yellow mucus onto the counter.

The pharmacist smiles sadly, removing the offensive object with a gloved hand. He'll see what he can do.

I sit, waiting.

A crowd slowly forms around me, and we cough and sneeze in a cacophonous chorus. A woman sits across from me, bouncing a three year old on her knees. A young couple sits next to her, both glowing, his hand on her expectant, bulging stomach. I look away, but it seems everyone brought their children with them: twin babies with matching yellow onesies and barrettes, a gummy two year-old with glazed green eyes and a slimy fist stuck in his drooling mouth, a six year-old girl in her smart plaid school uniform, her slanted eyes studiously furrowed over a Junie B. Jones adventure, and Angel leans his dark head against my knees, looking up at me and smiling contentedly.

I shake my head. He disappears. I cannot blame them. Of course they would. No one will let their children out of their sight for weeks to come. Fleetingly I wonder how many daycares will be forced to close. But I cannot distract myself for long.

Angel stretches and yawns, his eyes disappearing. He nuzzles my knee and lays a small hand innocently against my thigh—

I shudder. I feel his warm weight. My fingers lunge for my face, it is flushed and burning to the touch. I am feverish. Hallucinating. Shit. I should've known it when I lost it in that damn restaurant. I stumble to the water fountain, pull the tab and bring the paper cup to my lips. I drink nearly 64 ounces. I turn back to my chair but Angel is curled up next to my seat, sleeping. His pale face peaceful, dark curls resting on tiny fingers—

I walk calmly away, rummaging through the non-prescription drugs. Acetaminophen. I drop a ten on the checkout counter and pop four extra-strength Tylenol. They turn chalky and bitter in my mouth. I swallow. I return to my seat, cursing myself for stepping over his sleeping form.

I am surrounded by mothers and their children. My only child is dead, a five day old disfigured corpse, bloated and rotting in the heat of the summer sun…and I think back to 18 months in Pakistan, every charred, bloated, gnawed or desiccated carcass, their look, their sickly smell, their hollow eyes and grinning grey teeth rotting and mottled…

I shut my eyes. Afraid to look downwards, lest the sleeping child curled next to my feet should suddenly raise a ruined, corpselike face. Minutes tick by. My fever burns. My lungs ache. Finally, mercifully, someone turns on the television. I recognize the reporter's voice: Channel 18 News.

I sigh in release, opening my eyes.

Rebecca James finishes her closing remarks. "Back to you, Chris," she concludes her segment with gravity. Her grim, frozen smile stays onscreen for fifteen seconds. "Chris?" she finally asks, staring past the camera. She flashes another weak smile, listening intently to her headset and nervously slicking her red hair. She begins improvising. "Like, like I was saying, EMS workers will continue to service the Legacy bombing for another twenty-four hours. The last survivor was found nearly fifteen hours ago in critical condition. Officials have agreed that the likelihood of discovering any new survivors after this twenty-four hour window is medically impossible. Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad has made the statement that EMS will remain on site in reduced numbers to to o-offer ser-ser-ices will eme-gencyper-on…

Static.

We are all silent. The panic and tension become palpable. The white, abrasive noise from the television instills us with unspeakable dread. Six days previously, all the stations went off air at once as camera crews were buried in the falling deluge of dust and ash.

Then—

I jump in shock. Screams. Mothers shield eyes, hugging children close to their chests. The pharmacist drops a bottle of pills that scatter and go spinning all across the floor…

Christopher Holden is dead, his throat cut gratuitously. Splintered bone and raw, cut muscle spill from his shoulders, his head dangling obscenely on the glass desktop. A nauseating pool of blood flows in sheets to the floor.

"Well, uh, now that I've got your uh, your attention," Angel's killer drawls lazily, inspecting the handle of the buried meat cleaver. "I thought I'd uh, make a little uh, announcement," the Joker smiles into the camera, the studio lights casting eerie shadows on the wrinkles of this stretching scars. The edges of the stitched scalpel wound pucker, and blood leaks slowly from the corner of his Cheshire grin.

Angel, I blink in grief.

"You would, uh, think that with so many uh, so many teachers…unavailable this semester that the uh, schools would still be uh, closed," he waggles a finger into the camera, clucking his tongue and smacking his lips. "Well! Imagine my uh, my surprise to hear that Gotham City Public Schools-zuh have uh, Re. O. Pened. On Schedule," he enunciates, shaking his head in mock disgust. "And after such a uh, recent…tragedy. I'm uh, I'm ashamed," the corner of his mouth catches in a moist squelch. " I really am."

We shudder as one. That shudder spreads through all of Gotham.

"So uh, with us here today is…Superintendent Reginald Baxter!" the Joker calls with sarcastic cheer. "So, Reggie," he turns in mocking, rapt attention, chin thrust forward over his gloved hands. "What can you uh, what can you tell us?"

Baxter is gimpering in fright, utterly speechless. He is speckled in the spray of Holden's crimson blood. It drips from his glasses like heinous tears.

"Ah," the Joker says knowingly, taking his hand and patting it between his own. "I see." Urine eats through the crotch of Baxter's pants. Around me, mothers are sobbing.

I am shaking in rage.

"Well," The Joker says again, raising furrowed brows owlishly over his yellow eyes. "Let's just uh, let's make this…easy. If ya keep the little uh, kiddos back in uh…school," A Grinch grin grows slowly, grotesquely, stretching ear to ear. More blood dribbles down his cheek. "I'll uh, blow one up. A uh, school, that is. What uh, what sort of a uh, a fucking sicko would want to, uh, to hurt a uh, a little kid?"

Every mother clutches their child. I cannot: mine is already dead.

"Reggie, I uh, I asked you a question," that moist sound is back, his grotesque lips slavering and shifting…

"What sort of fucking sicko would uh, would want to blow up a uh, a little kid?"

Baxter's answer is a string of terrified gibberish.

"Didn't catch that," the Joker hisses.

"Y-you would!" Baxter gasps.

"Uh, well, Reggie! I'm…uh, I'm insulted, to say the least," it takes both of his purple-gloved hands to wrench the meat cleaver from Holden's neck. It sloughs out more blood as Holden's body careens slowly from the chair, his head twisting on the broken neck until it finally sinks out of sight.

Whimpers. Shrieks. Children are crying. Every parent in Gotham City is riveted to the screen.

"Now," he whispers menacingly, leaning down to speak directly into Baxter's ear. "Let's uh, let's tell everyone to uh, to close the schools, okay?"

My heart is racing, pounding. The Joker isn't a god, he's only a man….his pain as Angel plunged a scalpel through his cheekbone proves it. Even wounded, bound and drugged my Angel fought him. Think. Baxter. Think! I groan desperately. Send an elbow into his solar plexus. Twist and break the arm holding the meat cleaver. Kick his shin, his knee, his groin…bring a fist into his open mouth. Twist, break his neck as teeth pour like blood-

But Baxter isn't a cop. Isn't a marine. Isn't a Killer.

He's a middle aged, overweight superintendent. He simply whimpers.

"Now say it. Let's uh, let's hear you say it, Reggie-boy!" the Joker cackles gleefully. "Say: the schools are closed. Say it! The. Schoollls. Are. Closed."

But Baxter can't speak. Can't string the words together. Sweat and tears pour down his gasping face. The Joker clucks his tongue and shakes his head sympathetically. "Don't worry, Reggie-boy. It's uh, it's just…stage fright."

Apoplexy. Baxter is shaking, seizing, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. A long, choking rattle comes from his heaving chest. All is still.

A repressed sob. A gasp. A quick intake of breath. The twin babies continue crying. Not even their mother dares to comfort them.

The Joker turns back to the camera, all traces of jesting gone. "One school. For every day." He sets the meat cleaver down gently on Baxter's lap. "So uh, so don't be fucking sickos. Cause, ya know…nobody likes it when little kids get uh, hurt."

He is deadly, fucking serious.

"Oh. And uh…mommies and daddies, since the schools have already uh, already opened…I'd uh, I'd get there prit-ty quick-kuh."

Then he laughs, laughs, laughs until tears stream down his face, running down thick smears of greasepaint…the camera goes to a side shot as a campy musical interlude signals a commercial break. Cris Holden lies sprawled on the floor, his dead eyes staring blankly into those of more than 3 million viewers, and the Joker lazily spins an office chair until Baxter's body topples slowly off.

Static.

Rebecca James' confused face reappears. "Chris? Chris? I don't know why I can't raise him-"

"Beck, you're live!"

That horrible irony and the picture disappear as one. I wrench the cord from the electrical socket with a shaking fist, that Bastard's words still ringing in my ears: And the truth folks, is I might be the devil, but here I get to play uh, god. So ya better believe, ya better have uh, fai-thuh. Because I am om-ni-po-ten-tuh. So when I say something will happen it's gonna happen…

Silence. The identically dressed twins continue to wail. Even the safety and comfort of something so familiar as their mother's arms is now both empty and violated.

Pandemonium. People stagger and run, grabbing cell phones, blackberries, keys…in a matter of five minutes, every mother, every father with school age children will careen recklessly down the freeways, backlogging traffic, slowing down emergency personnel…exacerbating the crisis…

I shut my eyes: Angel's face. Broken. Marred. Smeared against chipping plaster to form a grotesque, sinister grin. "Don't go to the police. Don't trust the police. They might put up a good fight-tuh…but in the end they're whatcha call…powerless. So who are ya gonna trust? Me? Or them?"

The sound of panicked feet slowly dies. My eyes open. All is still.

Trampled pills lay crushed and forgotten on the dirty tile. Gotham has made her choice.

Mine still lies before me.


	8. Chapter 8

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 25th

11:12 EST

Green Street

I leave with two bottles of 875 milligram dosage Amoxicillin. The pharmacist stares at me in shock as I approach the counter, crunching the scattered medication beneath my feet. It takes him nearly a minute to mutter a hasty apology, and ask me to repeat myself.

"GCPD. I need a broad-spectrum antibiotic. The strongest you've got."

He doesn't hesitate, just fills the script. No pleasantries, no casual conversation, no warning about avoiding long exposure to direct sunlight or probiotic bullshit…he places the bottles in my palm with a shaking hand. "You get that Bastard," he chokes.

For the last two days I have intended to. Even now there is no blood but hatred that surges through my veins…yet Stalton's death reminds me of my guilt. I step back through the revolving doors, blinking owlishly the muted sun. I killed. I didn't enjoy it.

But.

Dent. Dawes. Tanaka. Holden. Baxter. Angel. Countless hundreds—thousands now. Someone has to stop this. Stop him. That little fuck deserves to die.

…and screaming.

And now, now as traffic whizzes by, horns blaring, now there's a slim window of chance. I know where that Bastard is. Was. Not two miles from here…

I am running, sprinting down the sidewalk as cars careen around each other, swerving madly through every intersection. With traffic the way it is, with the Legacy only a week old I have a better chance of reaching the station in time than any other GCPD personnel.

Left, right. Left, right. My neck aches with the effort, straining as I look frantically back and forth across the crowded street. There is no break in the wall of speeding cars. They pour down, ignoring lines and lanes, tires screeching, horns blasting…

Adrenaline burning, chest heaving, in a desperate run I pace the length of the block. But there is no break. The cars continue to come. I tear my hair in frustration, swear, kick a parked Chevy, its alarm now joining the ringing chorus of dented, damaged cars. TV 18's logo smiles tauntingly down at me from a billboard. I'm less than two fucking miles away, and I can't come any closer.

I am 21. I am desperate. I must cross the street have to get to Jon—! "Jon!" I shout, forgetting everything, everyone I can't walk he has left me Jon! Jon! The shock and horror of his abandonment cut deeper than ever I see him eye contact he turns away—heart breaking if I could reach him he would never leave me again I have to get to Jon—!

"Jon! JON!" he has crossed the street, opening the door to his car. No thoughts no looking I spin the wheels on the chair desperate racing I have to get to Jon before he leaves me again he can't leave me again—"Jon, wait, please wait Jon please—"

"PALTRON!" Red shrieks my name as lights glare in my eyes I throw up my hands rubber screeches on pavement—

"PALTRON!" Tires screeching, cars swerving Red's shriek cuts across eighteen years I spin and—

CRUNCH! With a violent lurch Mercedes and a Taurus t-bone in the intersection only feet in front of me. I throw myself to the ground, covering my face as glass shards spiral through the air cars continue to pour, carrying the locked vehicles in their momentum. I raise my head as the tangled scraps spin through the awning and front window of the Starbucks I vacated not three hours before…

I shut my eyes, remembering: a downcast Latina pours steamed milk into my latte…two pimply, scrawny teenagers take orders at the cash registers…

All dead. Oh, fuck.

The tinkering of shattered glass, the horrific grinding noise of metal on metal, the squeal and reek of burning tires….Car alarms blare, spilt fuel fumes rise…I open my eyes and traffic is at a standstill. A blockade of cars lie smashed and broken across the road, barring the way for miles. Flames erupting, drivers screaming, shouting, climbing out windows, running, swearing, exchanging blows…a shot is fired. The Joker doesn't even have to blow up a school to kill and maim today. I watch sprawled on the cement as Gotham City tears herself apart.

Joker.

I groan as I put my weight on my hands and knees, scraped and bloodied from the fall. Art's Beretta lies ten feet from my outstretched hand. I crawl, groaning in pain, dragging my right leg behind me. Seventeen years with a goddamned orthopedic knee and fucking now it decides to give me trouble.

I grimace bitterly, gritting my teeth, willing myself forward. My palms are shredded on knubs of green safety glass. Fuck. Seven years ago I was still fighting bare-fisted every night at Underworld….even three years ago on Fear Night Lawless and I went in with SWAT to break up the largest prison riot in US history—that was the year Lawless turned forty. What was it he said?

I'm getting too old for this shit.

I smile bitterly, the familiar feel of Art's Beretta now firmly gripped in my palm. It's not as funny as it once was.

August 25th

11:27 EST

Green Street

Oh shit. Fuck. Damn. Oh Christ—!

I fall again, my right leg buckling underneath me. I sprawl gracelessly onto the cement, cursing and tearing. No. Not this. Not again. Please not again—!

Washington DC. The Pentagon. I am twenty-one. In uniform. A Purple Heart is pinned to my chest. My fingers are still tingly from shaking hands with godammned POTUS, my face a little flushed. It is a glorious day, the sun just right, a hint of wind… Red chucks my head roughly and grins down at me.

I squint up at him, his honest smile lost in the glare of the afternoon sun.

I am sitting in a wheelchair.

Red doesn't pity me. Neither does Bear. Red says he likes me better in a wheelchair because it's the first time he's been taller than me. He also says he likes to push me because he can "better admire your breasts—I mean, your bling."

Bear mutters something about don't ask don't tell, and calls him a Dyke. I laugh and call them both assholes. They chuckle and ask if I'd like to head over to Bdub's to watch the game—

They load me onto the bus, irritated glances and mutterings quickly stopping as people see the reason for the delay. "It's probably some idiot with a bike" turns quickly into awkward embarrassment. Their frustration turns to pity. Bear glares at them, Red reaches behind to buckle my chair to the wall, telling me to just ignore, they don't understand—

They treat me like a sister. We are the only Third Reconnaissance Division survivors of the Warizistan Incident. We are family.

We get sidelong glances from all entering passengers. Some are pitying. Some are angry. The war has never been less popular…

But I am with my two closest friends. We are about to spend an all American night on the town in DC with wings, Budweiser and football. I was just awarded one of my country's highest honors. For a moment—just this moment—even Jon's absence, even this wheelchair cannot quench my spirits.

Hot wing sauce burns my tongue. I wipe foamy beer and dripping, delicious chicken grease from my laughing mouth. We talk about old times. Basic. Our Eurotrip. The time we thought Masterchief's dog was going to blow us all to hell fetching a live grenade—Masterchief had a laugh at that one. He did that to every bunch of wet recruits. I laughed. Bear gave a shaky, terrified smile. Red just blushed—he had pissed himself, hence his nickname…

The Steelers are winning. We toast our friendship. We toast our comrades, Mortalis…we toast our good times together, we toast Masterchief, we toast Masterchief's dog and the whole damn country of Pakistan. Bear toasts the Steelers, asks Red if he's going to toast the cute little piece of ass he's been winking at all night…"Toast her?" Red says in astonishment. "I barely even knew 'er!"

I am laughing so hard my ribs hurt, my face aching in the widest smile. I feel so light. So free. Red raises his beer one last time. "To good friends. Good times. Good beer!" he cries.

"Fuck yeah," I say.

"Semper Fi," Bear nods somberly.

It is nearly midnight. We leave Bdub's, the air is cool and brisk. It's a great night to be out, and we attract strange looks and angry stares as we bumble down the sidewalk, Red makes car horn noises and jet engine sounds swerving me in and out of the crowd in a wheelie, I am shrieking in laughter. We talk and joke more drunkenly than we really are, giddy with life and high spirits, Bear belting out cadences and stepping in time, I keep beat with my good leg, tapping my foot on the pad as Red inserts obscenities into his song—

Bear stops cold.

"Aw, shit!" Red cries as I let out a whoop of surprise and am jostled forward into Bear. I face plant in his ass. "What the hell, man?" Red asks, righting me as I giggle in embarrassment. "You okay, Paltron?" he says concernedly.

"Sure," I shrug. I open my mouth to jibe Bear, crying "Company, halt!" but the words die cold and empty in the night air.

He is still standing stock still. Rigid. Snarling.

Red takes a sharp breath. "Motherfucker." Still smiling I lean over the arm to see what is wrong-

My heart stops. It's Jon. Jon—!

"Jon!" I shout, forgetting everything, everyone I can't walk he has left me Jon! Jon! The shock and horror of his abandonment cut deeper than ever I see him eye contact he turns away—heart breaking if I could reach him he would never leave me again I have to get to Jon—!

"You cocksucking bastard!" Bear lets out a roar, and Red tackles him to the ground, holding him down as he shouts, tearing to get away—"Don't you turn your back on her don't you dare turn your back on her—"

"Jon! JON!" He has crossed the street, opening the door to his car. No thoughts no looking I spin the wheels on the chair desperate racing I have to get to Jon before he leaves me again he can't leave me again—"Jon, wait, please wait Jon please—"

"PALTRON!" Red shrieks my name as lights glare in my eyes I throw up my hands rubber screeches on pavement—

I stand, dragging the leg behind me, hobbling to a storefront and sitting heavily. I rip the tattered, bloody pant leg open and inspect the damage. Glass. Rock. Blood. I don't have time for this…I can see the orthopedic piece, gravel and glass chunks wedged between the artificial cap and the synthetic plate of the femur. The leg won't straighten because it can't… I am digging them out with my fingers, scratching, clawing away at the raw, red flesh.

I take out the keys to Stalton's hardtop. I begin to dig. My face twists, eyes shut. I wince in agony—

I wake. Blink. Blood trickles down my forehead. It is bitter in my mouth. I am lying on the asphalt, the metal frame of the chair crumpled around me. I blink again, the headlights glaring…Jon. He is rigid in shock, standing not twenty feet away, one hand still on the open car door, his mouth hanging open in horror and disbelief.

"Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you okay?" I don't hear can't hear have senses only for Jon…

"Jon!" I try to stand. I remember I can't. I begin crawling, dragging, slithering my way towards him through broken glass and twisted metal. I hear Red and Bear shouting, shouting behind me.

"Don't you make her crawl you motherfucker don't you dare let her crawl!" Bear's lungs are bursting, the driver of the car is baffled people are staring, staring—

He is feet from me. I am staring up at him, covered in blood and tar, my eyes puffy and disgusting in tears, nose dripping. "Jon—" I choke, reaching bruised and broken fingers for him—

She is in the car. Tall. Blonde. Slinky little black dress, makeup, nails done. My heart breaks. My split lips part. She is a more feminine version of me—a copy, a fake. "Jon."

Red is holding Bear back but failing. He is incensed. Heaving, his curses his threats his volume people are leaving going back indoors getting in cars all my hopes crushed love spent I am bawling as I look at her perfect figure, her confused face.

"Look, Paltron, I—" Jon stammers.

"I'm your wife!" I am sobbing, choking. "I'm still your fucking wife—!"

"He's not worth it, Bear!" Red shouts as Bear knocks him to the ground. "He's not worth it—!" Bear is loosed, his giant hands finding the frame of the chair and he brings it over his head and swings—

"NO!" Red cries as Bear brings the full force of the frame down. Jon topples into the side of the car, raising his arms to defend himself—

"JON—!"

"Fucking. Cock. Sucker!" Every syllable punctuated by a blow "And your goddamned. Little. Cunt!" Jon unconscious she is screaming crying the windows smash around her Red holds me I am sobbing, sobbing—

A lone motor breaks my concentration. I open my clenched eyes and a cute, innocent yellow Beetle trundles down the opposite sidewalk across the intersection, as slowly and merrily as if sightseeing—

Blood leaks hot from my knee, slippery on my fingers.

Joker! His head is leaning out the window like a dog's, happily surveying his Kingdom of Chaos, green hair blowing back, eyes shining with a hideous light—

Rage. Hatred. Fury. But I can't grasp Art's Berretta with my slick, blood-greased hand—

For one second and one second only we make eye-contact. I bare my teeth. Memorize this face, Bastard. Someday it's going to be the last thing you see. He raises an eyebrow, curious, narrows his flaming eyes and nods slowly, his smile gone. He hits the gas—

…And disappears.

Fuck it! I stand one-legged, leaning on the window box for support, committing every detail of the Joker, the car, the license plate to memory—

Like the Joker registers his goddamned car, bitch. I shake my head, grinding my teeth in my frustration. He was right there he was right fucking there—! I let out a shriek of fury, fall back on my ass and shove the key into the wound, blood shoots and splatters over the sidewalk the pain is excruciating unmasked by my adrenaline and anger—

I writhe and cry AngelAngelAngel—!

A squelching pop. I fall back, panting.

It is loosed. Clenched firmly between my shaking fingers is piece of concrete the size of a pea. It is bloody and smeared with chunks of my flesh.

Cursing, I wrap the wound. And walk.

August 25th

13:47 EST

103rd Street

Left. Right. Left-Right-left. Left-right. Right-left. Right-left. Right-left…

Think, dumbass. You have to plan. You can't just go charging blindly into a situation like that—! I berate myself as I limp down 103rd. TV 18 is only blocks away, the roads finally and eerily quiet, littered with abandoned, dented cars.

I can walk now, the gravel gone, the joint works smoothly. But I won't be running…not for awhile. I let my emotions get the best of me. Of course traffic was going to be bad—if the GCPD couldn't get there by car how the Hell was I planning on getting there on foot? I would've had to cross six major roadways—

I'm lucky this goddamned knee is the only damage.

My own words come back to haunt me: If I am going after the Joker, I will have to learn to wait. I have to be strong. I have to be prepared…

The Bastard was less than fifteen yards away. And I did nothing—fucking nothing!—to stop him. Angel I am so sorry…

Right-left. Right-left. Right-left…

I look like a goddamned peg leg pirate. But TV 18 is only two blocks away. Not that it matters…the Bastard is gone. But I am drawn, against my will, a burning desire just to see.

They haven't found Angel's body. This isn't Angel's body…but just seeing Holden will give me closure, relief, purpose…

I am Thomas. I just need to see.

My right leg on fire, I have walked the entire distance. GCPD cars have swarmed into the area, parking in the street, the sidewalks, everywhere—

A beagle, a bloodhound and a German shepherd wearing GCPD Canine Kevlar all sweep the streets. "You won't find him." I pant, doubling over in pain and retching, leaning against a squad car. "He went West. Down 99th."

"You saw him?" one of the handlers asks sharply.

I flash my badge, wiping sick from my chin. "Yeah."

He grabs the radio from his belt. "Commissioner? We've had a sighting. Plainclothes cop saw him on 99th. I'm sending her in."

My heart sinks. Gordon.

"Ma'am? You're going to cross the street and go through those doors—" his words are lost. I nod numbly, stumbling across the car-strewn road, every government acronym in Gotham scrawled across their sides. I've walked nearly two miles on this goddamned leg, yet the next one hundred yards seem impossible.

The pain of the wound. The weight of my guilt. The dread of facing Gordon—

WHAM. I go sprawling, skidding, skating across the asphalt. I am dazed I try to raise myself, falling again—

I look up. A silver Porche looms over me, its driver and passenger both pale and hurriedly clamoring out.

I struggle to stand, fingers slick across the waxed hood. I explode. "You did not you did not you did not just fucking hit me!"

The man is pale and shaky. He looks utterly lost as I hurl insults at him. "I walked two fucking miles through Carmageddon Shit and now fucking now you hit me?" I fall back on my ass. "Jesus Christ are you fucking blind?"

"I think she's fine, Mr. Wayne," the passenger says, patting the driver's arm, a kind smile easing across his relieved black features. The driver is haggard, worn, exhausted. He lets out a sigh of relief that is both a laugh and a sob.

I don't care. I have to get inside. Have to see Holden, to get to Gordon—

I stand. I take three steps, ignoring their protests. My leg collapses.

I fall.

"Holy shit! You're bleeding!" Wayne says. "Jesus Christ! Fox, she's bleeding! Here, let me help you-!"

Twenty-one. Bear has been charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. His trial is set for a month from now. I am about to be released from a two-day stay in the hospital for observation. Red enters, haggard and drawn. With him is a nurse with a wheelchair.

"Alright, girl," he says sadly. 'Time to go."

I can't look at anything but that chair. Mine lays broken in the middle of the road, I crawl to Jon…Bear swings it again and again into the car until Jon and his girlfriend are nothing but pulpy, bloody masses, the car destroyed…I just wanted Jon. Jon. I have lost him. I have lost Bear. I look down at that chair and know that this has taken fucking everything from me. And it will for the rest of my life.

I am not getting in that chair. I will never get in that chair again.

"No," I whisper.

"C'mon Paltron. Let's go."

"No," I say firmly, shaking my head. "No."

"Ma'am," the Nurse begins.

"Fucking no!" I shout, tears pouring from my eyes my face twisted and contorted. "No!"

"Paltron, c'mon just let us get you in the chair—" I am fighting them, struggling against them.

"NO!" I wrench away, staggering, falling but for one glorious second I stand on my own two feet unaided. I hit the tile hard, but I don't care. I stood I can stand I can walk—!

"Paltron, what the hell? Let me help you—"

"No!" I struggle, using the bedside chair for support. I am shaky, weak. The nurse is protesting, threatening to call the doctor, the psych ward, to obtain restraints—

"I said no, Red!" I claw at his helping hands, pushing him away—

I collapse.

"Don't touch me don't touch me don't fucking touch me!"I am crying, sobbing, screaming but I am not weak. I am strong. I will never, never accept help standing or walking again. That goddamned shrapnel took everything from me: my life, my dignity, Masterchief, my friends, my career, my husband, my children, my modesty, Bear-

I will take back the only thing I can: I will take back my pride.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me," I hiss, refusing the pro-offered, manicured hand.

"No, you're hurt this is all my fault let me help-"

"Miss, please, let's let a medic take a look at your knee," the black passenger says concernedly, staring at the bloody mess dripping down my right shin.

I ignore him.

"No, really! Let me help! This is my fault I'm sorry don't please, miss, you need help—!"

I roll to my hands and knees, ignoring his protests, putting my weight on the bad leg and slowly bend my left. It is excruciating—but I can't rely on my right knee to stand. Left leg up, I lean to the left, hands on my thigh and strain—

Still feverish. Lungs aching. Cold sweat soaks my hair and clothes. Blood pours from my knee. I straighten and stand, trembling, head held high. We are nearly eye-to-eye.

"No, Mr. Wayne," I state, unblinking. "I don't."

August 25th

13:58 EST

TV18 Studios

Wayne bumbles after me, makes a show of opening the studio doors for me. "I really wish you'd let the medics take a look, make sure you're okay—"

"Mr. Wayne," I turn, "I'm not going to sue."

He blinks in surprise, taken aback. "I meant to uh, to uh…"

The man I know only as Fox chuckles and shakes his head.

"And I don't want to go to dinner, either. Or sleep with you. Now please," I look him straight in the eye, "being a conceited asshole isn't a federal offense but impeding justice is. I'm giving you five seconds to get out of my way and then I'm arresting you."

"Wait—you're a cop?" Wayne asks in disbelief.

"Not just a cop. A damn good one," a gruff voice growls. I turn, and Aaron Lawless is standing on the second floor, smiling grimly down at me. "Perhaps the best."

It's been three days since I last spoke with him. I smile tiredly back, knowing already I have begun the foundations for the wall that must drive us apart. The Joker took my Angel…and before this ends, he will take my badge, my honor, and the love of everyone I hold dear.

But for now I look into his hazel eyes, and they are the eyes of a friend. It's so goddamn good to see him.


	9. Chapter 9

Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani: Survivor's guilt. Love and loss. Gotham may never be the same again.

Monday, August 19th, 2030

A day that will live in insanity—President Geraldo Calderon, USA

My fellow Americans,

Today, tragedy has befallen us.

The day seemed too normal, too routine for notice. None rushed to hug a spouse or child that were unaccustomed to doing so. None felt compelled to repent for past sins, seek counsel or look to God in thanks. No prophecies of Nostradamus were unearthed and examined. Life in Gotham City went on much as it had for the last year, cars zipping hurriedly through the metropolis like ants through a maze, mindless drones, their pre-established, pre-ordained, organized paths clear and straight before them. But the crossing of so many paths is confusing and beyond mortal comprehension. Only a Deity could know of their countless conclusions.

Perhaps He does know. Perhaps He weeps.

But I can pledge to you that this tragedy will not go overlooked. I promise you that the ineptitude, the violence, and the carelessness that accompanied federal aid after Katrina will NOT be the legacy of this administration. The American people deserve better. The people of Gotham City deserve better.

For every action there is an equal yet opposite reaction. Routine is necessary for the tragic to be truly appreciated. Death came unexpectedly, inescapably, leaving the city of Gotham reeling and crippled in its wake. Hoping to Stop the Violence, the leaders and citizens of Gotham succeeded only in raining down more destruction and death…

As of now, no group has stepped forward to claim responsibility. But I can promise you this: the perpetrators of this act will be discovered. They will be hunted. They will be found. And they WILL be brought to justice. America has been and will remain the home of the free and the brave. We will NOT be bound in fear.

Perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps He laughs.

The crisis in Gotham City is now this government's chief concern. Across our great nation, the terrorist threat level has been raised to red, and all government offices will be following protocol in accordance to these measures. There will be delay. There will be inconveniences. I can only urge you sincerely as my fellow citizens to comply with both grace and patience as we work together to overcome this most desperate of times.

Do not go to churches nor temples, shrines nor mosques. Do not pray and cry for mercy, for hope nor understanding. Do not join hands and sing, ignite no vigil candles. Do not seek to find strength of heart and solidarity in friends, neighbors or community. Do not look to the heavens for Hope. Offer up no prayers of Dona Nobis Pacem. The powers of protection are either dead or deaf. We can no longer afford to worship them.

As your President, I thank you for your cooperation. Good night, and God bless America.

If there is a God who truly is good, He has utterly forsaken us.

23:52 EST

Ground Zero, Gotham City

Ash and smoke belched in rising clouds through the stadium lights. The roar of helicopters thrummed through the air. Sirens screamed, electric blue and incandescent reds flashed like epileptic nightmares. Shadows of dust rained like snow. Seventy-four soreys of glass, concrete, and steel choked an expanse of six city blocks.

Commissioner Jim Gordon blinked, a crust of plaster falling from his trembling eyelids. A helicopter veered overhead and he shielded his eyes…even over the din of the blades he heard a noise, wailing and whimpering, like a baby crying. He stumbled towards the sound.

GCPD K-9 Units. Malanois and German Shepherds whined piteously, panting on their sides, eyes dulled, feet burned and bleeding. A veterinarian offered them food and water, injecting them with antibiotics. "These dogs need rest," she snapped, looking up, not recognizing the Commissioner, his face blank in shock, unheeding. "They're dying of exhaustion!"

A fire fighter staggered by, hauling the charred body of a six-year old girl. "Medic!" he shouted hoarsely. "I need a medic!"

The vet leapt to her feet, helping to lay the child down slowly. Her blackened lips were swollen and dry, her ragged body a mess of blood and burns. "IV fluids! STAT!" she barked. "We need an ambulance-"

"There are no more ambulances-"

"Christ she's going into shock-"

" I don't know what to do just help her please help her-"

"AED!"

The fireman ripped through her canvas bag, but the only medical supplies were cans of dog food, syringes of penicillin, canteens of water, IV bags, ace bandages, tweezers…the vet's arms pumped on the girl's tiny chest, flesh sloughing off in sickly smears. She looked up at the expectant fireman, not bothering to place her stethoscope on the girl's heart. "She's gone." she whispered.

The man burst into sobs, rocking back and forth as the woman closed the child's eyes.

Gordon watched, shell-shocked, the letters GCFD on the man's uniform igniting blue then red with each flashing strobe of sirens. The vet turned away, retching and moaning. The dogs continued to whine, licking at shining, bloated wounds-they grew distant, fading into a white fog…more dust…

Ambulancehelpgodohchristmedicshithelpmedicstatmedi cmedic-

Gordon blinked, staggering.

OhfuckflareupIfoundoneoverherehelpGodohhelpChristJ esusbringabodybagmorphineIVstatmedicmedicIneedamed ic-

"Jesus, GORDON!" The world was spinning, spinning down into whiteness and the haggard face of Detective Aaron Lawless shone for a moment then was lost.

Eighteen hours previously...

06:00 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

Yellow eyes opened impatiently. The man known only as the Joker was awake.

A slow, methodical ticking noise rang from outside the door, growing louder and louder until it paused directly across his cot. A shadow loomed suddenly over him. From under the door his shifting eyes caught a flash of brilliant purple.

That sound—and that color—belonged to a woman's high heels.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel peered in through the security glass, frowning. She coughed loudly, scribbling a short note on her patient, then coughed again. Satisfied, she tucked her clipboard between her hip and shoulder and continued primly down the hall.

Those yellow eyes glittered, narrowed, then shut. Eight hours and counting.

A peaceful, patient smile played upon his ruined lips. He licked them once, in anticipation.

07:00 EST

Sisters of Mercy Convent

Sister Teresa Margaret rose stiffly from the kneeling mat. Finished, at last, with morning prayers. She donned a black habit and a white wimple, covering her hair, her neck, her arms until only her face and hands were visible.

She left the small, dark room, making her way noiselessly down the hall to the Convent's kitchen, the shelves bare and almost empty. The poor you will always have with you… They might not be able to feed all that came through the doors this morning. She would go without-perhaps many of the sisters would join her for a fast…After all, were they not called to feed His lambs and sheep?

Sister Teresa Margaret's face remained docile and passive as she worked. It was Monday. The Charity Pantry had been running low, but there would be a delivery tonight. Inside, deep and forgotten, Maggie Kyle smiled. Mondays were her only tie to her old life. On Mondays, her brother dropped off supplies for the pantry.

In three years, he had never missed a day.

08:02 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

Detective Aaron Lawless nodded a curt good morning to the receptionist, his face drawn. Late nights, early mornings, weeks of strategic planning and rehearsals…he had stumbled in after midnight both on his eighth anniversary and Ian's third birthday…this Stop the Violence Campaign would be the death of him, he was certain. MCU was handling the logistics…but for an event of this magnitude quite a few officers were on temporary loan from Homicide. The Detective was one of the 'lucky' chosen for this 'honor.' In fact, he had done more work for MCU this last year than he had for his own department.

Can't wait for this Stop the Violence shit to be over, he grumbled to himself as he unlocked the glass door, dropping his briefcase in his cluttered office, winding his way through the crowded floor to the coffee maker.

Commissioner James Gordon himself was in the small galley, pouring a belated cup of coffee.

Even tired, Lawless couldn't resist a playful dig. "What are you shooting these days?" he grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

'Straight, unadulterated espresso," Jim's mild voice lamented. "But don't tell. Barb thinks I'm decaffeinating."

"Yeah, well, tell me how that one goes," Lawless shook his head, helping himself to a deep, full mug of pure black. "We're becoming old men, you know?"

Jim chuckled tiredly, pushing his large glasses further up his nose. "I can't help but feel it beats the alternative."

The door opened again, and a wilted Anna Ramirez stumbled in. "Oooh, Lawless.." she moaned, "You've had better had saved some for me."

"Gotcha," The Detective quickly poured a new cup. "Cream or sugar?"

"I take straight speed if you have it," the Latina gave a guilty grin. "Jus' plain, gracias."

"She-man!" Bradley grunted in passing, pounding his Kevlar vest Tarzan style.

"Yeah, Paltron's the only woman in the department allowed to take it like that," his partner Milton jibed. "and that's only because she can shave the chest hair with her laser vision." Lt. Gwen Paltron had a set of heartless, steely eyes straight out of a sharpshooter flick—and the range record to prove it. SWAT had been trying to woo her for years.

"Don't you two have something more important to do, like checking parking meters?" Lawless growled good-naturedly.

"Righto, Roge-o. We are out of here," The duo one-arm saluted with bravura and left, goose-stepping.

Ramirez had collapsed into the counter, sighing. Switching with Montoya for the night shift and MCU's work on Stop the Violence had both taken their toll on her, her hair lank, face drawn, eyes doleful. It couldn't be easy, Lawless mused, balancing those hours with three small children and a recent divorce…

"Don't let 'em get to you Ramirez," he said lowly, trying to raise her spirits. Fred Milton and Eugene Bradley were great cops…albeit assholes. Their way of whistling in the dark was irreverence and rudeness to everyone and everything. The more offensive, the better. "They're just making that shit up to annoy you. Everyone who's been here long enough knows Paltron just sucks the beans raw."

"She still does that?" Jim asked with a grimace.

Ramirez sputtered and snorted into her coffee. "You, you are just as bad as they are!"

"I was just kiddin' you," Lawless said kindly.

"I wasn't," Gordon stated. "She used to do that. It was disgusting."

The small woman shook her head with a sad smile. "She's speaking today, no? At the Campaign?"

"Yeah," Lawless chuckled, draining his mug. "This damn Stop the Violence thing is going to kill us all, you know?"

Anna smiled again, shaking her head, but the light didn't quite reach her bloodshot eyes. Oh, what the hell, Lawless thought. The poor woman's been up for almost 36 hours…

"Oh, Anna," Jim Gordon's quiet voice pulled her back. "any problems with security on the night shift?"

She turned reluctantly at the door, looking wearily into his eyes. "No, Jim. Everything's went fine."

09:55 EST

Wayne Penthouse

Twenty-seven year old Rebecca James and twenty-five year old Cameron Shaw sat stock still on the very edge of the white lambskin couch, not even daring to uncap their pens. The cameraman, Paul, stood awkwardly in front of the shimmering bay windows, keeping his hands tight around their equipment. Even the effing floor is breakable, they thought, studying the Venetian tile.

Maybe if they had worked for Gotham Galore or the Urban Scene Network they would have chatted candidly, making even their wait into a segment of the story. But Ms. James and Ms. Shaw were reporters from the local Channel 18 News, and their lives did not consist of toadying to celebrities, neither the national nor the local varieties. The highlight of their collective careers, to date, consisted of a personal interview with the governor's wife and a business dinner that had the Gotham City Knights also in attendance.

But here?

Dressed even in their newest, best professional suits and polished Prada shoes they felt strangely girlish and out of place. This penthouse was unreal, a fairy castle, and neither could fight down the feeling of excitement, turned nervousness, that they were actually here.

Rebecca fought a quick smirk. The Wayne Penthouse. If only her mother knew.

Cameron folded her notebook professionally, smoothing the sheet paper and fighting back the urge to even consider calling her former best friend, who was now dating her (former) fiancé, and asking the two of them to guess where she was. That snotty little daddy's girl princess, she thought. I bet she's been trying to get a peek at this place for years…

The butler strode briskly back into the room, breaking both women from their thoughts. "Forgive me," he said with a slight bow. "Master Wayne will see you shortly." He hurriedly walked on, expertly balancing a heavy, food-laden tray in one arm. Remembering her college days as a night-shift waitress, Rebecca James watched with amusement—and some awe-as the water in the narrow rose vase did not slosh a drop, not even when the butler disappeared quickly around the corner.

Damn, was he good.

"Master Wayne," Alfred called through the oak-paneled doors. "I have two very anxious reporters in the drawing room. Apparently they have a ten o'clock appointment?"

There was no answer. Sighing, Alfred juggled the breakfast tray to rap on the door again. "Master Wayne?"

No answer, no flurry of movement. He really should not have expected it. He himself had already been asleep in the parlor for hours when Bruce stumbled off the Penthouse elevator the previous night…or early this morning. When this Batman nonsense had first begun, he had stayed up, all night, waiting anxiously for his employer's arrival. Their relationship went a lot deeper than mere family servant, he thought of young (but getting older) Bruce as not necessarily a son, but perhaps an erring nephew he had raised from childhood. He was still worried, of course—Bruce's work as Batman was as dangerous and as deadly as ever before, but the fact of the matter was that he himself was now closer to seventy than sixty, and his body just could not take the strain.

Not that he liked to admit it.

"You could've just gone to bed," Bruce had chided. "It would've been easier."

"Nonsense." He retorted. "And miss you coming in after curfew?" His body might be tiring, but his mind was as still as sharp as ever-something he prided himself on. Sodoku and crosswords, nearly every morning with the paper-Bruce had laughed at him, but didn't argue.

"Please don't ground me. Promise I won't do it again." Bruce had yawned and stretched, slicking back sweat-soaked hair with a devilish grin. It had been good to see him smile—at home. To the papers and the paparazzi he was still shallow playboy Bruce Wayne, squandering his riches away nearly as fast as he could make them. The real Bruce, the pensive, thoughtful, kind man he knew, had been silent and shadowed for nearly a year.

Rachel's death had been hard to bear. The healing would take time…

"Master Wayne? Reporters?" Alfred raised the timbre of his voice. "Master Wayne?"

And with that, the gold-gilt, double doors swung suddenly and dramatically open, shining sunlight streaming through as a white-robed, Armani boxer-clad celebrity billionaire Bruce Wayne strode out to general worship with great aplomb. "Ladies, ladies!" he called suavely to the awe-struck reporters, all thoughts of notepads and former boyfriends forgotten. "So sorry to keep you waiting!"

Alfred sighed deeply, straightening the tray in his arms and replacing the spilt rose back into its vase, following the blushing, awe-struck women and their cameraman for an interview in Bruce's very bedroom, mentally preparing himself to act the part of the doting, father-like servant.

After he rang the cook for three more trays, of course.

10:06 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

Detective Aaron Lawless glanced up at the clock again. The Kid was now two hours late…and MCU's Lt. Paltron-his former partner—was pissed.

"You know, if he ever does show up," she said, slamming yet another thick file into a dilapidated metal filing cabinet. "just ask him to put his badge in my mailbox because I. Am. Firing. His. Ass. Oh, damn!" The drawer broke under the increasing weight, landing on her toes. "Piece of shit!" She kicked the drawer, spewing papers across the linoleum. "Call him again. And tell Stacy I've got some papers for her to file..."

Tempers, Lawless mused, were running short. What with the planning for Stop the Violence and the clearing of the buildings surrounding Gotham City Plaza, no one had gotten enough sleep for the last several weeks. But the detective was suspicious that perhaps his old partner's bitchiness might have something to do with the fact that as a speaker for the event she was wearing heels and panty hose.

11:14 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

Stony faces set, the two security guards lifted the laughing inmate by the armpits and dragged him from the mess hall. A jumpsuit clad corpse lay twitching and jumping on the floor under a pool of trays and slimed food. Only an inch of the fork handle could still be seen poking from under the right eye-lid. The face was covered in scarlet.

"C'mon, c'mon let's fight let's fight!" the Joker rushed the padded door, throwing himself against the walls, tearing at the door seam where his captors disappeared.

"Batmaaaaan! Come on, give me the baddie batty Batman!"

11:23 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

The Kid's cell wasn't on. Every message went straight to voice mail. "It's Jimmy!" It was the thirtieth time he'd heard the beaming tones in the last three hours.

Shit.

Connolly was a rookie cop. Young. Inexperienced. In no ways inept but in many, naïve…it might have been three years since Fear Night, over a year since the Joker's imprisonment, but this was still goddamn Gotham City. Jesus, Jimmy, Lawless thought, where the Hell are you?

But the phone was either off or dead. Dead meant water. He tried to distract himself, laugh it off. The Kid probably dropped it in the toilet, he thought with a brief grin.

But the waterlogged, decaying body of District Attorney Carl Finch floated to the surface of his mind and would not sink away.

Incident Report

Patient #666 (Joker)

Mess Hall, 11:30 AM

Lunchtime brawl ending in unusual violence. Patient Gregory 'Madcap' Morrison air evacuated to Gotham Methodist Hospital, condition labeled critical, presenting with complete right enucleation and hemorrhaging. Witnesses say Joker responsible (More information on so called 'magic fork trick?' pending results of further investigation.). Fourteenth episode of violent outburst resulting in patient or caretaker injury documented in the past three days. Patient is believed to have suffered a minor relapse to habits of self-harm, hostility, and aggression. Removal to private care ward urgent. Recommended therapy: appeasement.

All staff are reminded to use extreme precaution when approaching this patient. In light of future investigation, only doctors under supervision by security will be permitted to treat or enter patient room.

Additional note: Patient Gregory Morrison was pronounced dead upon arrival to Gotham Methodist at 11:37 AM. Police informed, official investigation of staff negligence to be opened by District Attorney. All staff are to be fully cooperative with law officials. This incident is not to be discussed with members of the media.

Signed: Dr. Harleen Quinzel

11:39 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

The door swung open and Aaron Lawless jumped up, expectant and hopeful.

"Ames," he said, his face and heart falling at the sight of his young wife, already dressed in burgundy scrubs. But he was a man, he was her goddamned husband, he was supposed to be strong. He kissed her cheek, feigning normalcy. "Babe, what are you doing here?"

Smiling, she plunked down a glass baking dish filled with caramelized onions and two loaves of French bread. It was one of her husband's favorite meals, and his partner absolutely raved about it…

"Well, I figured you guys would be so busy with the campaign you'd forget to eat, so I just came by…" Amy Lawless' voice trailed off as she looked into her husband's eyes. "Aaron, what's wrong?" she laid a gentle hand on his arm. Something was wrong, off, missing…Suddenly it struck her.

"Aaron, where's Jimmy?" there was an edge of panic in her voice.

He sighed heavily. "That's just it, babe…no one knows."

11:47 EST

Wayne Penthouse

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne," Rebecca James concluded, offering her hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"No, the pleasure was all mine," Bruce assured her. "And you should call me Bruce. Or sugar. I also answer to honey."

The reporter laughed, rolling her eyes. Damn, what a chauvinistic pig, but didn't it feel good? "Perhaps some other time."

"Thanks again," Cameron Shaw offered her hand in turn. Wayne took the proffered palm and made as though to shake it, but at the last second raised it to his lips and kissed it, staring directly into her eyes.

All froze.

For a moment, both women were completely silent in disbelief.

Seconds wore on. Wayne's mouth twitched. Rebecca bit her lips. Shaw burst into a fit of girlish giggles. Wayne began to chuckle, and Shaw's giggles turned into all out laughter as her face flushed bright a hot, bright pink.

Twenty-seven year old Rebecca James threw her curly head back and snorted hysterically until tears streamed down her face.

"You two should stay for lunch."

"Oh, we couldn't—" Rebecca began.

"Come on," Wayne wheedled pleasantly, "I've already got the cook working on it…he'd be broken hearted if you two stood him up."

The two women exchanged glances. They really shouldn't, they really shouldn't even consider…but this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, for God's sake! Neither wanted to back down. Friends though they were, neither wanted the other to stay…and yet as nervous as they were, neither wanted the other to leave.

"Well," Cameron began reluctantly, but Wayne cut her off.

"Excellent! Now I can give you ladies the grand tour…" And with that, he was off, explaining the history behind the Baroque masterpiece on the wall above their heads. Finishing that, he grabbed their arms, leading them onto the next exhibit. With one more helpless, bemused glance, the two women tore their eyes away from each other and listened with rapt attention.

Oh, what the hell… It couldn't hurt, could it?

In that moment, neither Bruce Wayne, Rebecca James nor Cameron Shaw could possibly know that this one small, selfish decision would save their lives.

12:00 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

"Well," the psychiatric intern said, sitting down across from her disfigured patient, spreading out his multiple files on the tabletop. Quinzel was busy dealing with the DA, and the Joker (no one referred to him as #666, even though official policy was never to use his chosen alias—it gave his sociopath personality too much control over the situation, working contradictory to the rehabilitation process) had been left to her. She wished he was in restraints…or that security was actually in the room instead of outside the door. Victor Zsasz had strangled one of her predecessors through the bars of a holding cell, after all…while handcuffed.

But again, heightening security over routine basal measures would only give the Joker the illusion of control. Either way, they were fucked.

"You've certainly made a mess of things. Gregory Morrison is dead."

"Now ain't that tragic, dollface?" The Joker leered.

"Your behavior is completely unacceptable, and your lack of respect for human life atrocious. I am putting you in solitary confinement-"

"Aw, come on dollface!" he wheedled. "You uh, you can do better than that! Confinement is so, uh, pre-dic-ta-ble and uh, boring…and I don't like being bored. Cause, uh, ya know, ya know what's gonna happen: I'll uh, throw a fit, and I'll hurt myself. Some high-minded do-gooder will see fit to come in and uh, stop me and in my uh,…volatile and so vul-ner-ab-le stat-tuh I'll uh…maim him. Then-oh, and here's the real uh, kicker: you'll try to uh, restrain me-again!" he petered off into a fit of giggles.

"And then the grand finale!" he shouted, making sizzling noises and gesturing fireworks with his excited hands. "By the time it's uh, finished I'll be drugged on the floor and three members or your security will uh, resign, and the rest will demand raises."

The psychiatrist blinked.

"Big. Fat. Raises," he enunciated, peering at her owlishly from under his furrowed brows. "Do ya really got the grant money for all that, dollface? I've uh, I've heard the taxpayers are getting pretty uh, pretty pre-ti-cu-lar about paying for your uh, hospitality. Wouldn't it just be easier to give me a uh, TV? With uh, cable?" he smacked his lips, leaning forward across the table towards her. "That way I uh, won't be…bored?"

"You want a TV?" she asked, numbed.

"I uh, I heard there was uh, a parade. And gee, Doc, I just love a parade. I like the balloons, ya see? I like it when they go uh, pop."

A minor relapse…fourteen violent episodes in three days…removal urgent. Therapy: appeasement. Quinzel had signed the orders herself. The intern gulped slowly. The Joker wanted a TV with cable? The staff were terrified, the patients restless. The gates to Arkham were swarmed every morning with angry protesters calling for the Joker's blood. But the Joker was insane. Couldn't be held accountable for his actions.

Still, no one deserved to die with a stainless steel fork stuck through their eye socket…

He wanted a TV to watch the parade?

He would get one.

12:03 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

"Dude, man, you have to talk to him," Bradley sat on Lawless' desk, interrupting the Detective's worried vigil. "One, I feel my manhood shrinking just being classified as the same gender…" he crammed his mouth with Amy's homemade onion dip. "and two, he's fucking lucky not to be dead."

"He's here?" Lawless asked in surprise, hurling his chair back and standing abruptly.

"Yeah," Milton said, helping himself in turn. "Just explain that Gay Pride was last week, but this week we're supposed to be wearing our Stop the Violence T-shirts-"

"Jesus Kid, where the Hell have you been?" Lawless barked, finally catching sight of his young partner across the crowded atrium. "You're almost four hours late, no call, no message-I thought you were fucking dead."

He pulled him into a rough embrace, breathing a silent thanks to whatever powers that had kept the Kid safe.

"No. Just half-drowned," Jimmy Connolly's small mouth gave a frustrated, half-hearted smile. "And maybe a bit scalded."

"Christ," Aaron said, holding him at arm's length and taking a better look. Yes. The Kid's shirt was…appalling. He was still in his street clothes and Chuck Taylor's, his uniform in a suit bag over his shoulder, his dripping dress shoes tied together and dangling from one boyish hand. But mostly he was wet: soaking wet and stained with what looked like terribly cheap coffee. "What happened?"

"Just a social experiment gone a little awry, that's all."

"Social experiment?"

"No call because coffee," Jimmy tossed him the dead phone, "and coffee because T-shirt," he nodded downwards to the brilliantly purple shirt emblazoned with a cartoon gorilla and the words Grape Ape. "And coffee ruined uniform, which I had just picked up from the dry-cleaners…to which I returned, ago the lateness, and thusly no calling, and hence; my appearance."

He took a deep, dramatic bow. "Sorry I'm late."

"Jimmy!" Amy Lawless' voice rang. "Jimmy!" Aaron's wife flung her arms around her husband's young partner, planting a kiss on his flushing face. "Thank God you're all right-we were so worried—you're soaking wet!"

He sighed, "Long story."

Lawless clapped a hand on the Kid's head, messing his dark, matted hair. "Next time, call, for Christ's sake, okay? And don't ever wear that stupid shirt again. You're lucky coffee's the worst that happened."

"Why?" the Kid asked, blinking and wiping wet locks and drops of coffee out of his eyes.

"Number one," Milton said, unable to resist, "It makes you look like a flamboyant homosexual-"

"Ignore him," Aaron sent a glare over the Kid's shoulder. "He's an asshole. But Kid, honestly, do you know who you look like? There's a reason that was on the clearance rack, Kid. No one wears purple in Gotham anymore," Aaron said lowly, his gravelly tones darkening. "Not since last year."

"There was a girl in the clinic last April that got beat up on her way home from school by a neighbor's mother just for wearing a bright purple sweatshirt," Amy Lawless cut in quietly. "It's not a good idea."

"What, you want to stop wearing a color just because the Joker wore it?" A few nervous heads turned in their direction. Amy looked around warily.

"It's not about what I want, it's about staying safe," Lawless said darkly.

"Can you really blame people, Jimmy?" Amy asked nervously. "After all he did, do you really want to remind people of that? There's hardly anyone in Gotham that didn't lose somebody or know someone who lost somebody…why would you want to purposefully bring that up?"

"That's insane," Jimmy argued, juggling his shoes awkwardly as he gestured. "You guys are completely missing the point. You can't make a decision on what color to wear just because some crazy madman wore it…I mean, that's just giving him control. It's caving in. Today's Stop the Violence, right? "

Lawless raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly.

"So supposedly we're launching this whole city-wide campaign against crime, violence, drugs, and stuff, essentially we're banding together to tell people like the Joker they can't mess with us…"

"Jimmy—" Amy began worriedly. Aaron's partner was around the house enough that the thirty year old RN considered him almost like an erring, awkward little brother. Not that Jimmy ever did anything necessarily bad…he was just…naïve. And now he sounded like Brian, Brian what's-his-name. She had walked in on Aaron viewing that terrible tape, and the image still haunted her.

We don't have to be afraid of people like you.

But you do, Brian. You really do…

"But if I can't wear purple down the street safely with him locked away, doesn't that just mean people like him have already won? If we have to give up a whole region of the spectrum so our lives can go back to normal, they really haven't gone back to normal at all. It only proves we're so afraid of them, so used to the violence, that all we've really done is become numb. Stop the Violence isn't going to work unless people are willing to admit it's there. That's all I'm saying," He shrugged, dropping the shoes and bending to pick them up. "And I guess that's why I wore this stupid shirt. Just to see."

There was silence. Aaron Lawless nodded slowly, Amy's eyes darting nervously between her husband and his partner.

Even Milton and Bradley had nothing to say.

12:05 EST

Gotham City Plaza

One hour, fifty-five minutes and counting. Just enough time to grab lunch with the family….

"Tanaka! What are you doing here?" Jenkins the new network boss shouted from the back of the Channel 18 News van. "You're supposed to be out covering the streets!"

"My shift ended five minutes ago! James is supposed to be up!" Trisha Tanaka cried back, sliding out of her heels and massaging her toes. Her shift was done. They had agreed on that. She would get the afternoon off, get to see her six year-old niece Gracie say the pledge of allegiance for Governor Richards. The rest of the family were sitting with her proudly, went out to breakfast, showered her with congratulations, kisses, hugs and gifts…Trisha's parents immigrated from Japan eighteen years ago, and had adopted their new culture as their own, changing their names and insisting on English only, even in the house. To see their only grandchild receive such a privilege had been an honor in deed.

Harsh words had been spoken when Trisha announced reluctantly she couldn't be there. In frustrated tears she related the story to James and Shaw…to not show up would be to shame her family. But to take the day off, she would lose her job.

"What time's Gracie's thing?" Rebecca had asked.

"Two, or about two. Whenever the Governor gets there-"

"Then don't sweat it." She said with a winning smile. "I've got an interview that morning, but I can be there before then. Say…noon? Don't worry. I'll cover for you."

But James never came. For ten minutes Trisha looked for her bouncing red curls through the crowd, hoping that it had been a hold up with the traffic, a minor delay…

In another two, she was back in her heels, standing in front of the camera wearing her famous, winning smile. She had again become Good morning, Gotham!'s 'vivacious little Trisha Tanaka' of channel 18 news.

On the outside.

On the inside, child immigrant, afraid of her family's harsh reaction, worried what Gracie, what her sister would think…afraid her fiancé off in grad school in California had already forgotten her, disappointed, let down and crying with her studio make-up running in tracks down her blotchy face Trisha Tanaka stood surrounded by a sea of thousands of people…

She had never felt so alone in her life.

12:10 EST

Wayne Penthouse

"Master Wayne!" Alfred said in surprise, finding Bruce hurriedly dressing. "I beg your pardon, I had thought you'd left—"

Bruce grinned. "Not while guests are still over, Alfred. Sudoku's not working as well as you'd thought."

The Butler frowned. Master Wayne was due to make an appearance in twenty minutes at the Legacy. He had scheduled the appointment himself…Thomas' foundation built the Gotham Public Transit twenty years ago. Gave grants to Inner City schools. Funded kidney, heart, and liver transplants…

"You are, I assume, asking the guests to leave so as to arrive to the Legacy on time?" He asked lightly. Surely, surely for the Legacy he could give up this playboy façade….

Bruce shook his head, slicking gel through his wiry hair. "Nope," he grinned at the Butler's reflection in the lighted mirror. "I've just found a fantastic and very visual excuse to be fashionably late."

"Master Wayne, I would think that on a day of this significance you would at least shelve this arrogance and pay respect to your father—"

"Whoa, Alfred!" Bruce said, turning from tying his tie in the mirror. "I'm not being arrogant-"

Frustration. Anger. Alfred's voice shook like his clenched, whitening hands. "The Foundation was important to your father, sir. The transit, the surgeries…the least you could do is oblige his memory by showing up at the Legacy!"

Bruce snapped his cufflinks in silence, averting his eyes from Alfred's pale, twisted face. He sighed deeply, still staring down, folding down the ends of his shirtsleeves. "You know," he began, his voice dropping low. "I didn't know how to tell you this…but I've wanted to. I just…didn't know how to say it."

He turned, and looked into the eyes of the man who had raised him and who loved him like a father. Anger he could bear, but he could not stand to see disappointment in those eyes.

"I am not my father, Alfred, and I won't pretend to be. But if Rachel's death taught me anything it's that his work, that the Foundation…is the most important thing that Wayne Enterprises will ever give Gotham, that I can give Gotham…it's tangible, it's hope. "

The butler was silent, his eyes wet.

"Someday Gotham won't need Batman—and I, I'll have to be willing to accept that. But She'll always need the Foundation, the Legacy. So don't confuse this, this mask-this disguise-with who I am. Gotham can't know me for who I am…they have to believe I'm the drunken billionaire who burned down his own house, remember?"

The Butler had spent seven long years waiting to hear word from his young charge, seven years in solidarity, seven years where he alone in the world had not given up on Bruce Wayne as a lost cause. "You never gave up on me, did you?" Bruce had asked.

"Never," had been his response then. It still was.

"I understand, sir," Alfred said lightly, "And what better way than to show up two hours late to every social function, even your own?" It was an apology, of sorts.

"Especially my own," Bruce laughed, breaking the tension with a sad smile. "And where would I be without my obligatory arm candy?"

"Arm candy, sir?" Alfred asked, bewildered.

"Babes, Alfred," Bruce straightened his silk tie with an impish grin. "Babes."

12:13 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

Aaron was damn proud of him. He really shouldn't be all that surprised-with what the Kid had confided in him about his family life and growing up…. He wasn't as naïve or stupid as he appeared with his soft, boyishly innocent features and smile…

But the no calling had worried him. Scared him. Sickened him. Over the last year Jimmy had become more than a partner, more than a friend, he was, was almost like-

Like a son.

If Jess had wanted kids when the first got married, they would be Jimmy's age by now. Aaron had wanted them. But she was young, a college graduate, ready to start her career and wait on the family…he was starting his first year of medical school, had a long road ahead, wouldn't be there for her, for kids…Years dragged on, then things got rough…and Aaron's only consolation through the long, ugly divorce was thank god there had been no kids involved. Kids and divorce just didn't belong together.

The Detective was twenty-three when he was first married, thirty-two when he divorced…

He met Amy three years later, and married her the next. He had a young son at home, Ian, three years old. He had resigned himself to being nearly sixty when Ian went to college…

But Jimmy was, well, Jimmy was Amy. Forgiveness. A second chance, a new start.

After years of questioning, drinking, wondering where the hell it had all gone wrong, if he could ever make it right, if there was a God and if He cared or could forgive, Amy found him, and he knew instantly he had been given another chance at life and love. And again with Jimmy. The DUI that took his medical licensure so long ago also took the lives a family of four…yet the pressing weight of guilt, the questions, the wondering all disappeared in those dark, wet, smiling eyes. Answers. Vindication. Forgiveness.

"I'm….I'm impressed, Kid," Lawless finally said, as Milton and Bradley reluctantly nodded their heads in agreement. "But next time you decide to make a stand on something, consider doing it in a way that might not kill you."

"Please?" Amy's timid voice put in.

Jimmy shrugged again, giving a tiny laugh. "I figured people'd just yell at me. I had no idea women would be like, dumping coffee on my head."

"Yeah, well, another one's about to if you don't get changed quick," Bradley mumbled. "Paltron's on a roll today and she's already pissed at you."

"Which isn't a fun situation given the fact you two are driving to the Legacy together." Milton stated casually, mouth stuffed with bread. "Or had you forgotten?"

Jimmy paled. "Right."

12:20 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

It was a beautiful day in Gotham City: sunny, balmy, just a hint of wind. A more perfect day couldn't have been picked for the opening of Gotham's Stop the Violence Campaign, a new youth-oriented program for inner city schools targeting the rising crime rate and teen homicide. The youth of Gotham were its shining stars, its hope for a better future. With better education funds, anger management counseling, vocational training and college scholarships offered through the Wayne Legacy Foundation, Stop the Violence would give Gotham's future a viable chance of making their future a peaceful, prosperous one, bringing them together across their differences to form a closer-knit community build on respect and tolerance…

Or so newscasters said, over and over and over again as he flipped through the channels, trying to find the right camera angle. That wasn't what interested him, the respect and community and tolerance psychobabble-he had heard enough of that at Arkham. But the enthusiasm did interest him, oh yes. The program would uh, bring them together. And Channel 18 had uh, such a nice view of the Foundation's glass and steel spire…

A bored grin stole over his scarred features as he smacked his fleshy, disfigured lips. "Afternoon, officers," He addressed the statue-like guards standing outside his cell. They said nothing, not even bothering to turn their heads. For over a year now the guards had stood outside his door. At first they had been jumpy, willing playthings, easy to startle and scare, but he had long grown bored of their indifference.

And he would have newer, better toys soon enough. He smiled devilishly, then turned back to the television, dark eyes narrowing in anticipation.

So far, the campaign—and the plan—were working.

Stop the Violence had already brought them together. Now thirty-five thousand teachers, parents, community workers, ordinary citizens and students lined the streets and sidewalks leading to the Plaza, shouting themselves hoarse as the parade led by marching bands from local high schools wound its way to the Wayne Legacy Foundation's Community Center, a seventy-four storey spire spiraling gracefully into Gotham's skyline. The cheering grew louder through the speakers as the front of the parade came into view.

One hour, forty minutes. And Counting.

12:23 EST

Rachel D. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

"Alright kiddos, play nice now," Aaron Lawless chuckled. "Be home by curfew. Any later and you're grounded."

Gwen Paltron rolled her eyes at her former partner, opening the driver's side door of the squad car. "Keys," she barked, and Lawless' young partner tossed them to her, cowed.

"No drugs, no sex, no R rated movies," Bradley chorused. "It's a first date, remember?"

"No sex?" Paltron asked, surprising all present by trading her take-no-shit-one-eyebrow-raised expression for feigned disappointment. "Damn. I'm sorry kid. But this just isn't gonna work out. I'm so lonely, and your daddy's got so many rules…I just don't want to get hurt again."

Bradley bust up laughing as Jimmy Connolly sputtered and shot Lawless one last, desperate look across the parking lot. The Detective waved grimly, and the Kid buckled his seatbelt, head falling back against the seat in resignation.

Doors slammed and the sleek black cruiser pealed out of the lot with only an hour and thirty-seven minutes to spare, an identical grin plastered on both the officers' faces. "Dude, that was fucking hilarious. I didn't expect her to join in."

"Yeah, well, there's just one problem," On closer inspection, Lawless' grin was forced. "I think the Kid's got a major crush on her."

"Oh, fuck," Bradley said after a moment.

The detective shrugged. "It's probably for the best-"

"No, it's just that…damn. That slick little shit. And to think we just gave him a hundred bucks to ask her out."

Lawless looked at him almost pityingly. "I wasn't joking."

Bradley grinned. "Neither was I." It was a long-standing unit tradition. And the best waste of a hundred dollars you could ask for. The Lt. must've discovered time travel because Shakespeare, Bradley had long ago decided, wrote the Taming of the Shrew only after being spurned by her for high school prom.

12:47 EST

Gotham City Plaza

"Going live, Trish," the camera swung to face her as the smile froze on her handsome Asian features. "Five, four, three, two-"

"Good afternoon Gotham!" Trisha Tanaka's bright voice came through the microphone. "I'm Trisha Tanaka and we're here at Gotham Plaza where the Governor is scheduled to appear for the opening of Gotham's new Stop the Violence campaign, just seven days before Gotham City Public Schools will open." Behind her, the cheering swelled as the white government limo pulled into view, flanked, followed, and led by dozens of GCPD mopeds and cruisers. Their sirens were blazing a happy note, blending with the deafening roar of the gathered throng, while a thousand pounds of confetti were released from the skyscrapers surrounding the Plaza.

"It looks like New Year's Eve in New York City!" she gushed. "The excitement is that contagious—" here she shoved the microphone into the face of a fifteen-year-old girl. "You've got a great view from here! What can you tell our audience stuck at home?"

"Oh, my god!" The girl jumped up and down in excitement, a wide, white grin on her dark face. "I can't believe I'm actually here! I'm on Good Morning Gotham! I'm on TV!"

"What's your name?"

"Shania Gibbets! And I'm a youth ambassador from Big Brothers Big Sisters!"

Trisha turned to what could only be the girl's mother. "You must be very proud."

"Oh, I am," the woman said loudly, over calls of Hi mom shrieks of Trisha I love you. "And I'm so glad to have a daughter who's interested in doin' things, makin' a difference." Shania leaned her braided and beaded head back into her mom's shoulder, grinning. "Not every parent gets blessed tha' way, ya know?" the middle-aged mother kissed the back of her daughter's head, squeezing her shoulders. "I be very proud of this here girl."

13:25 EST

Wayne Penthouse

Cameron Shaw had never been so amazed in her life. A seven-course meal-for lunch? She knew Wayne was ridiculously rich…but the thought of having a gourmet chef specializing in nearly any regional cuisine in the world only one phone call away was simply mind blowing.

Rebecca James set her glass down carefully. She recognized Waterford crystal when she saw it, and knew there would be no way in hell she'd ever be able to replace this glass. How odd, how fickle was it, she thought, staring into it's sparkling facets, that some men could afford meaningless trifles for more than she made in a month's time, while in the same city there were families that didn't always have food on the table…

It was unfair. Churlish. Arbitrary.

"…and if you enjoyed this you really must cover our third quarter business luncheon. We've just closed a deal with Nataki Industries, and in celebration we're having Mamoru Chiba himself prepare the food-onsite—we're still working on installing the kitchen—and it's the most amazing Japanese cuisine you'll taste in the US…and I should know. Last year I took him up on a bet and flew to LA, New York, Frisco and Chicago, and in the end I had to forfeit a case of excellent Bordeaux. Somewhat of a loss, but an educational experience well worth it."

Shaw laughed pleasantly. She had a glass of wine with lunch, and was relaxing and enjoying the atmosphere quite nicely. Why not? This was the only day she would be sitting with People Magazine's #1 richest and most eligible bachelor, eating outside a hundred and four storeys above the ground on a marble veranda overlooking Gotham City. She could even make a story out of it, perhaps sending it to Gotham Galore or even People itself…

"Have you always been such a connoisseur of traditional Japanese cuisine, Mr. Wayne," James asked with mock interest, leaning across the white linen tablecloth. "Or would you consider your extensive knowledge a more recent acquisition?" She asked lightly, but her eyes held just a hint of irony…and perhaps anger?

Touché. Bruce toasted her with his glass, continuing his discussion. Inside, he was secretly impressed. James had a good head on her shoulders and just a little grit,something he had missed this last year. Rachel had-

He leaned his head back and drained the glass, forcing the memories from his mind.

"It's too bad Trisha couldn't be here," Shaw said. "She'd be able to tell you a thing or two about Japanese cooking."

"Trisha?" Bruce asked.

"As in Trisha Tanaka," Shaw flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I'm sure you're familiar. She's another reporter friend of ours-"

The Waterford glass slipped through James' slender fingers, shattering on the marble tile. "Oh, shit! Oh, I'm sorry!" She said, flushing and standing quickly.

Bruce waved her off. "It's nothing, really. Nothing."

"No, we, well, I have to go. I told Trish I'd cover for her—"

She looked desperately at Wayne. "What time is it?"

He rolled back his sleeve, checking his Rolex. "One thirty," He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry if I've kept your ladies too long. Please, if you have a prior engagement.."

"Beck, there's no point in going now," Cameron said timidly. "Gracie's thing's at two. There's no way you'd get there in time—"

"Gracie?" Wayne asked.

"Her niece"" James snapped. "She's saying the pledge or something for Governor Richards and the whole family's supposed to be there. God, I feel like such an ass-!"

"You have to be there by two, correct?" Wayne asked, standing suddenly and very businesslike. "I might be able to accommodate you-"

James rolled her green eyes, in no mood for anymore playboy bullshit. "Sorry. But I don't think even the 'incredible Mr. Bruce Wayne ' can do anything to fix this."

A clever smile twitched on his thin lips and he raised an eyebrow. "We'll see. I have a phone call to make."

13:32 EST

Gotham City Plaza

"And there you have it, folks. Randy Roberts, retired history teacher," Trisha finished her brief interview with the grey-haired man with a sweep of her bangs behind her ears. Her fingers brushed the headset, and the diamond earrings Micheal had sent for her birthday-

"Trish-" she heard in her earpiece. "The real story, if you please…" The voice of Jenkins the network boss droned in a bored tone. She rolled her wide, slanted eyes and turned away from the gathered crowd towards the school of motorcycles and cruisers getting nearer and nearer. The real story was these people, this hope…not this display of firepower and security put on by Gotham's finest.

But the network paid the bills…and the bills paid Micheal's tuition, and the faster he got through school they could get married…

And she could actually stand up and say no to this job that made her miss Gracie's speech. Trisha loved TV 18, loved her boss, Chris Holden, fiercely…but she'd wanted to be a journalist, not a celebrity, damnit! Her family would understand someday…but Gracie wouldn't. Gracie only would know that Aunt Trisha loved her job more than Aunt Trisha loved her…and she'd be right. Trisha wanted Micheal, wanted to married and have kids of her own—

She blinked back tears, and began improvising chattily about the Governor's arrival.

13:40 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"Everything going fine?" the gruff growl of Aaron Lawless' voice came in his ear.

Commissioner Gordon turned to face him, a strained look on his weathered face. "So far. Did you ever get a hold of your partner?" The Commissioner had left the office for the Tracking Room around nine.

"Yeah. He showed up around twelve or so. Funny story, really. You'd like it."

"Twelve?" the Commissioner's eyes widened. "Is he in the habit of running late?" He asked weakly. The problem with hiring younger officers was you took your risks. Fresh blood in the system stood well against the corruption, it was true, but for many rookies it was the first time they had to be responsible for themselves or their time…and not all of them made it through. And Connolly was young.

Almost too young.

"Nah. He's usually damn punctual. That's what had me worried. Turns out he spent the morning at the dry cleaners trying to get his uniform re-cleaned," Lawless chuckled. "Some YWCA support group got a hold of him and drenched him in Starbucks. Twice."

"Do I even want to ask?" Jim said, watching the parade unfold on the surveillance screens, glaring like some grotesque, black and white, flickering compound eye.

Lawless pulled up a chair next to him, sitting down backwards with his arms crossed over the backrest. "Kid decides it's Stop the Violence day, right? So he walks to work wearing a goddamn purple shirt just to see how people would react...

13:42 EST

Wayne Penthouse

"Oh my God," James cried. "Oh my God!" She pressed her long fingers over her gaping mouth, laughing in girlish excitement as the Hellride descended down towards her. The helicopter's blades whirred overhead, sending her long red curls furling back, her skirt whipping tight as pantyhose against her slim legs.

Cameron Shaw wiped wind-whipped tears from her amazed, open eyes, her mouth hanging open and slack as the sleek, black chopper landed noiselessly on the pad in front of them.

"Ladies," Wayne called over the rush of wind and the whirring, clacking motor, "I'd like to introduce you to a good friend of mine-" The sliding door let out a pneumonic PSSST, revealing a spacious, black leather interior. "All aboard!" Wayne cried gallantly, climbing into the cabin, reaching back to aid the two laughing, gaping friends aboard with a strong arm.

"Mind if I come along?" Paul Binkowski ran across the pad, carrying the heavy camera. "For some aerial shots?"

"Sure thing!" Wayne called, unbuckling his belt to aid the bumbling, aging cameraman into the cabin. "All set?" he turned to the Captain, an excited, boyish grin etched across his features. Eighteen minutes, and counting. "And here. We. GO!"

From the Parlor, Alfred watched through the open bay windows as the Hellride lifted gracefully off, veering down and South across the city's Skyline. He shook his white head with a small smile. Arm candy, indeed…

Even without the women, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne was about to make the entrance of a lifetime.

13:45 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

"C'mon, c'mon let's go let's go…" the guards looked at each other curiously, watching their charge's newest antics. Ashen faced, trembling, wide eyed and muttering the inmate known as the Joker paced desperately, eyes darting back and forth between the wall clock and the TV. Fifteen minutes and counting.

A caged animal. Trapped. Pacing.

Waiting to be loosed.

13:49 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

" 'And I guess that's why I wore this shirt. Just to see,'" Lawless finished his story, smiling grimly.

Gordon set his coffee down, a smug, sincere smile stretching across his strained face, easing the lines of worry away. He shook his head, chuckling silently, the grin growing broader and broader. He brought a hand to his mouth, still shaking his head. It had been over a year since the Batman's disappearance, a year since the Commissioner had felt so…

So understood.

"He gets it," Jim Gordon said after a short silence. "He really gets it."

"Yeah," Lawless conceded. "He can be a bit…naive, at times. But once you get down to it, he's a damn good Kid."

Gordon smiled. "I was nervous hiring him, you know? One hundred and sixty-seven positions open and he applies for all of them. I couldn't not give him an interview…" his voice trailed away, eyes drawn back to the activity on the monitors. "I'm glad you told me. Remind me to buy him dinner sometime."

Lawless chuckled, his eyes wandering over the surveillance of Stop the Violence. The crowd was waving enthusiastically, confetti falling past the cameras…but something was still off. Wrong. He thought again of Jimmy, remembering his own panic from this morning: it might have been three years since Fear Night, over a year since the Joker's imprisonment, but this was still goddamn Gotham City

"I don't like it," Lawless mused aloud, leaning in to study the television closely. "The people are excited, but the cops are nervous," he pointed to the screen. "Look."

Gordon nodded in agreement. "We all knew it would be a risk. But it's a risk worth taking, Detective," he smiled, the image of a coffee-soaked, baby-faced cop stumbling across the marble GCPD shield of the entryway, four hours late…Connolly had understood. They couldn't back down, couldn't live their lives in fear. This parade was a slap in the face to the remaining criminals skulking leaderless and powerless in the drains and rot of Gotham. He gestured to the excitement of the throng. "For the first time in years, this city has something to root for, something to give them hope."

"Other than the Batman, you mean," Lawless said lowly.

"Well, yes," Gordon agreed, maybe too quickly. "We can only hope this doesn't end up like that fiasco."

"It's been what, a year?" the detective mused. "And we still haven't caught him?"

"Yes," Gordon sighed, spirits falling. A year since the disappearance of the Dark Knight. Never in contact, perhaps sighted sporadically, but never confirmed."A year. We're working on—"

Lawless cut him off. "Say what you will in front of the press, Commissioner. A lot of us have been thinking, and we have our own theory of how Dent may have died."

For a moment, Gordon stared at him, completely emotionless. " I have no idea what you're talking about," he began. "But it would be amusing to hear those theories…at a later time." Under a calm exterior, his heart had quickened. A rough, gravelly voice, the right height, right build…

Was it just possible-? he wondered. Could the Batman be one of their own?

Lawless nodded slowly, one eyebrow raised, then returned his gaze to the screen. TV 18, Gotham City News, vivacious little Trisha Tanaka standing in Gotham Plaza, positively beaming.

13:51 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Nine minutes and counting. She threw herself into the job, mustering all the cheer and animation she could, fighting back thoughts of Gracie's disappointed, crying eyes. To the audience, she had never been more charming.

"Alright, well there you have it," Trisha turned back towards the camera, standing next to the small Latina. "One of Gotham's future stars, Consuela Chavez!" She looked over her shoulder, still gauging the distance between her camera shot and the Governor's slowly approaching cavalcade. She returned to the crowd. There: a large group of city cops, standing almost at attention in military formation, probably about to be decorated….This would make a great segment, a human-interest side about Gotham's civil service workers.

And there. There in the front row. A face no one in Gotham could ever mistake.

"And how do you feel about the Stop the Violence campaign?" She thrust the microphone and a small hand into the startled face of a young officer at the front of the ranks.

"Who, me?" He squinted dark eyes at her, trying to hear and be heard over the deafening roar of the crowd. "I think it's a great idea!"

"What's your name, officer?" she was practically shouting now.

"Jimmy," his mild voice was distorted by the yelling, "Jimmy Connolly!"

"Connolly!" a sharp voice barked, "You can flirt with the reporter later!" The blonde pixie to his left stepped forward, pulling him back into formation.

"And you are—" Trisha began, but was cut off.

"That's Lt. Paltron," The officer identified as Jimmy Connolly shouted. "She's my boss-"

"Connolly!"

"Yes sir! I mean ma'am! Er…Lt!" His face turned a bright pink, and he gave the reporter a hasty, apologetic smile as he snapped back in line. The pixie rolled steely blue eyes to the heavens, but didn't speak again. Trisha laughed and flashed the camera a winning smile, the afternoon sun bathing her face a bright, glowing gold.

Behind her, the Governor's limo had just pulled into view.

13:52 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"Bet he enjoyed that," Milton noted.

"Who?" Lawless asked.

"Connolly. That chick's got great tits."

Gordon cleared his throat and shot him a glare as Renee Montoya walked by the open door. "Do you mind?"

Lawless just chuckled. "Nope. The Kid's only got eyes for one woman. He's absolutely smitten."

Gordon smiled in spite of himself… it was nice to take a short break from the worry and the strain. They had gone over security a thousand times in the last few months, cleared the buildings…but most importantly the Joker was still in isolation in Arkham, and no one had stepped up to take his place. And somewhere, unmasked, unknown, the Batman was still watching, waiting…A little more of a year ago, for Loeb's funeral, they would have had to call in the National Guard just to have a parade. And yet today, thirty-five thousand people were gathered in defiance of the crime that ran rampant through Gotham City. Dent had been right-it was always darkest before the dawn.

There was hope. There was change. Dent's death—the Batman's sacrifice—had united the people of Gotham City, their faith rewarded.

"Who is she?"

"You don't know?" Lawless teased.

"He's never mentioned her to me," Milton pouted.

Lawless shrugged. "That's because you're an asshole, and you've taken every possible chance to publicly humiliate him since day one. But he is my partner. I guess it's natural I'd notice some things that you two drips don't."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm in charge of a police force in a city so corrupt Las Vegas called in to give up its title. I don't have time to brief every officer in this building on their love life," Gordon countered, taking a sip of now tepid coffee. "Do I know her?" he asked kindly.

The detective grinned, nodding towards the scene on the monitor, the two officers in question still visible behind Trisha Tanaka's latest interviewee. "Look no further."

"Paltron!?" Milton spewed coffee all down the monitor. "Is he nuts?"

Gordon chuckled and shook his head, knowing he'd been had. "Nice try, Lawless."

Lawless threw his hands up. "I just know what I see. The Kid talks a hundred miles an hour, but if she's around he's dead quiet. I think he's got a crush on her. Bad."

Milton waved him off, still wiping coffee from the security screen with a soft, non-abrasive rag. "And that could have nothing to do with the fact she's our boss and she scares him shitless?"

But he went unheeded, Lawless' retort dying and expression sobering as he noticed Gordon's face harden as he gazed solemnly into the monitor, taking another long, slow sip of coffee. Connolly was his partner now, but for years he had worked with Paltron, like the Commissioner himself. He was proud of her, proud of both his partners for being selected for this honor. Her promotion was long overdue…

"She's a good cop," Lawless reassured lowly. "You've done a good thing."

"I know," there was pain in that look, and Gordon didn't seem convinced. They had a history, and what exactly happened between them Lawless had never asked. But there was something there, a wall, a wedge, that had driven them apart. The Commissioner was the unsung hero cop of Gotham, a poor knight whose armour didn't shine bright enough to attract attention, but still he hated corruption and scandal with a vengeance. Aaron liked to believe his new commander had always been this upright. He hated mulling if this man, too, had something dark and disgusting to hide…

She's a good cop, Gordon mused to himself. But the gnawing, dreading doubt wouldn't leave. He trusted the Batman because deep down inside, Gordon believed that the vigilante wasn't a killer by nature.

She went rogue. She can't be trusted.

Again he found himself wrestling to justify his past treatment of her with his present league with the vigilante. But the Batman was not under the jurisdiction of the GCPD. He didn't have protocol and regulations to follow. The Batman could execute his own justice outside the system because he had no allegiance to the system…and Dent excluded, he had never killed.

That was thirteen years ago. She's changed since then.

13:55 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

Five minutes and counting. The patient known only as the Joker suddenly ceased his pacing, slicking sweat-soaked hair behind his ears, and sat as calmly and regally as a king. His dark, smoldering eyes were wild with excitement, glued to the television.

"What the Hell?" the security guard mused. "You think we should call this in?"

"He ain't hurting anyone for once. Maybe he really likes As the World Turns," the other shrugged. "Leave it."

13:57 EST

Above Gotham City

"Unidentified Aircraft, you are in Restricted City Airspace, repeat Restricted City Airspace," Traffic Control came muted over the headsets. "Traffic Control Aircraft will guide you out-"

James looked desperately down, the colors and crowd of the Stop the Violence Parade scattered tiny and bright across the intersecting streets, overflowing the plaza. Red and white balloons rose in clouds around them, blown into arching spirals by the wind of the chopper's twirling blades. They were so damn close-

Wayne glanced back, studying the two reporters, and made an executive decision. This wasn't Batman, this wasn't billionaire Bruce, this was himself: the childhood, arrowhead-stealing friend of Rachel Dawes... and he was only trying to do a favor for a little six-year-old girl.

He grabbed the radio from the Captain. "That's a big fat uh, negatory, Traffic Control," he said pleasantly, propping his feet up on the dash. "You see, my name is Bruce Wayne and I own half this goddamn city. So I prefer to think of it as my goddamn airspace. So why don't we both just…forget about this and you tell your boys to stand down?"

James let out a hiccoughing chirp, staring at him in a mix of disgust and astonished, thankful admiration. Shaw had turned away, laughing silently into the bowed glass window.

13:58 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

Two minutes and counting. The Joker stretched lazily on the chair in his cell, casting a glance at the guards and giving them a grotesque wink. He turned back to the television, humming obscenely. It wouldn't be long now.

13:59.

He turned back to the guards, smacking his lips. "Do you want to see a, uh magic trick?" They remained deadpan, refusing to meet his gaze. "Tsk, Tsk, Not very polite-tuh," he grinned, then waved his hands elaborately, covering the small screen. "I can, uh, can make that uh, that limo disappear," he sniggered, the grin growing on his face, stretching and pulling at the hideous scars on his cheeks and lips until he was utterly grotesque, no trace of humanity left in his visage or his burning eyes…

That little Asian sex kitten was still jabbering away about the Governor. The white limousine had almost pulled even with her. He closed his eyes, waiting…

14:00.

"Abra cadabra."

Legacy Plaza

"Though few may know it, Governor Greyson Richards is actually the cousin of the late Harvey Dent, former DA of Gotham City. After Dent's tragic death last year, Richards began a campaign that led to his, his inauguration—" Trisha Tanaka's wide, wondering eyes left the camera, her voice trailing off in mid-sentence, gaze following a small plume of white smoke-

GCPD Tracking Room

"Fuck!" Lawless shouted in shock. "Gordon!"

Legacy Plaza

It happened in an instant. It had been nineteen years, but she knew that smoke, knew that high, whistling whine from eighteen months on tour in Pakistan, an exploded tank, men screaming, burned bodies crisped and blackened like charcoal-

"RPG!" Lt. Gwen Paltron threw herself to the side, forcing the younger officer to the ground, and covering him with her body. The explosion rocked the streets, sending white-hot debris flying into the air and the crowd, a belch of acrid black smoke choking those who escaped the blast of heat. She squinted her eyes open through Connolly's hair as the last pieces of concrete and metal rained down-

The blank, open eyes of Trisha Tanaka stared at her not a meter away. Half her skull was missing. Diamond earrings sparkled in a spreading pool of blackened blood.

Another deafening explosion. She shut her eyes tight, Connolly's scream rupturing her ears. Everything was blurry—vision, hearing, consciousness…through the smoke and haze she could hear screams, running feet moving like a tide down the sidewalks, around her, people groaning and crying out in pain, rolling over, standing up-

"No!" she shouted, raising her head. "Stay down!"

Another blast. The boy underneath her cried out in pain and fear as she slammed him next to the curb, using the sidewalk to protect him further. She opened her eyes, and the fallen were not getting up. A few were still standing, wandering, staggering, hands pressed to their aching, deafened ears, gasping and moaning as blood poured to the sidewalk-

"Stay down!" But they couldn't hear, dazed, deafened-

Dead.

Another high pitched whine, another earth jarring explosion, another deluge of concrete and ash and soot and body parts ripped flying everywhere. She rolled back on top of the boy, pinning him down as he struggled in fear to stand, to run, to get away! "Stay here!" she shouted. "Stay down!"

Above Gotham City

"Look!" Shaw shouted. "Smoke!" The four looked down, drawn to her pointing finger. Black clouds belched from the Plaza-

The southwest corner of the Legacy's spire tilted. Ever so slightly. Then seventy-four storeys of steel and glass shuddered, slipped, and disappeared.

"Oh my God!" Wayne shouted. "Oh SHIT!"

"TRISH!" Rebecca James clawed at her belt, tore the headset from her face, scrabbled at the buckles strapping her in, holding her down, keeping her away- "TRISH!"

Cameron Shaw had vomited, face pale, mouth etched in a silent, wordless scream.

GCPD Tracking Room

"Get me visuals!" Gordon shouted. Every screen had gone blank at once. Fred Milton desperately checked the monitors, the plugs, the radios…He tried the local news stations…he could raise nothing. No one. Either power had somehow been cut solely to the Tracking Room Intake or-

Or all outgoing signals from the Legacy had been lost simultaneously.

Oh, shit. Oh Christ. Please no-

"Oh Christ! What the fuck was that!" Lawless' fingers tore at his hair. Paltron. The Kid! "They were right there, Jesus Christ they were right there-!"

A long, terrible shriek came from the hallway. "OH, FUCK ME! OH SHIT OH FUCK!"

The three thundered out of the Tracking Room, adrenaline pumping, confusion, anger, and fear propelling them towards the sound.

Renee Montoya, still screaming. "What's wrong, God, honey what's wrong!" Lawless grabbed her, pulling her away from the window.

But Milton already knew.

"IT'S GONE! IT'S FUCKING GONE!" she shouted, tears pouring down her face she was gasping, sobbing, hyperventilating-

"What's gone—!" Lawless shook her.

"The Legacy." Milton whispered.

"IT'S GONE IT'S GONE IT'S FUCKING GONE!"

Jim Gordon stared out the window in shock, for one agonized moment his heart stopping completely. Rising in Gotham's Skyline were clouds of grey dust, black smoke. Rising through the jagged, naked scar where the Legacy used to be.

They were there Jesus Christ they were right there! Lawless' words came back to haunt him as the woman struggled against him, screaming.

A year ago. standing on the frigid deck of the ferry waiting the countdown. Fifty-six seconds until they murdered or were murdered. "You're here," Paltron finally whispered, face empty and blank. "There's no one else for me to call."

Four months ago. "He, he, he raped me! He was my d-dad and he raped me!" Rage. Adrenaline. Pity. He pulled the sobbing boy close as he tensed, screaming and refusing, knowing nothing but fear and fright in even such an innocent, loving embrace…a father's embrace. The one touch, the only touch, he had never had from a man-

Burning rage and sickening sorrow. They were right there. Jesus Christ they were right there… Lawless held the weeping woman tightly as she sobbed. Her whispered words rose in the terrible silence: Ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum…benedicta tu en mulieribus et, et benedictus…benedictus fructus ventris tui…Sancta Maria, mater Deus, ora pro nobis pe-peccatoribus nunc, nunc et in hora m-m-mortis nostrae-!

Milton sat shakily on the cold tile floor, face buried in his hands.

Over thirty-five thousand people in the streets. Most of them students, teachers, or parents, believing in a better future.

GCPD. GCFD. GCEMS. All had representatives at the scene. Many were operating on minimum capacity.

All those people, all those lives, all that hope

In one instant, in one moment

Extinguished.

14:03 EST

Above Gotham City

The pilot kept his head. As the Legacy collapsed he veered up sharply, bringing them up above the level of the surrounding skyscrapers where they could mourn in safety.

"Jesus Christ," He whispered, as plumes of dust and smoke ebbed over a span of 15 city blocks.

Shaw was white and trembling. James was pale, shaking and sobbing, "It should've been me it should've been me instead—"

I was supposed to be there, Bruce thought numbly. If I had left on time we'd all be dead-

Paul Binkowski was the first to recover. He was filming, had been filming this whole time. What for, he could not guess…but he knew instinctively he now had the only available tape of the Legacy's destruction. Every major local news station—18, 37, Gotham Galore, the Urban Scene Network…hell, even CNN—had had ground crews on sight. Perhaps multiples…

"Put me through to TV 18," he said quietly to the captain. "Please."

"Chris? This is Paul. We've got aerial—live feed. I'm linking it to a cell phone and sending it your way." Then he turned his balding head to James and Shaw. "You need to cover this."

Silence. Seconds ticked by. Wayne looked at him through suffocating tears as both women blanched and turned away. "He's right."

"No. No!" Shaw screamed, burying her face in her hands. 'Trish! Oh God, Gracie-!"

"It should've been me!" Rebecca sobbed. "I should've been there instead-"

"Hey, listen. Listen!" Wayne said sharply, unbuckling his belt and climbing over the seat towards her. He shook her shoulders gently but firmly. "It's over now. Okay? It's over. Even if you had covered for Trish she still would have been there. More people would've died, okay?" He held her close, rocking her slowly. "This isn't your fault. It's not your fault. There's nothing you can do now. Nothing." He spoke not only to her but to himself, the terrible thought that perhaps if he had been there, if he had only been there he could have done something to stop this…

James' nails dug deep into his arms and she took a gasping, steadying breath. Wayne squeezed her tightly, then let go.

She dried her face with a blot of her sleeve, tearing green eyes staring fiercely into the camera. Paul nodded.

"We're live."

14:09 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

Laughing laughing fucking laughing it was hilarious the best punch line to the best, best joke he ever told-!

TV 18 went off air. Well, of course! That little whore was cinders. Couldn't show that on television, now uh, could we? With a studious look he brought the remote up, pressing the channel button with a tilt of his head and a disgusting shiver-

He was disappointed.

All the channels went blank. Well, the local channels, that is…He didn't understand, it didn't make sense. No way in Hell those rockets took out all the news crews-

"This is Rebecca James reporting live from…from above Gotham City." Wait a moment, wait a moment-tuh: that reporter worked for the local uh, the local TV 18…what the Hell was she doing on uh, CNN? He flipped the channels, her face appearing on all the networks…

Interesting.

It was noisy-she was wearing a headset over her ridiculous mane of red curls-

A helicopter. That's where she was a helicopter…but what the hell was all that uh, that black smoke?

BREEEEEeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEEeeeeEEEEE-!

The alarms shook Arkham to its core, inmates cowering in fear, security guards looking nervously around. His own guards wheeled, guns drawn.

CODE FIVE CODE FIVE CODE FIVE CALLED ALL PERSONNEL REPORT CODE FIVE-

Code Five. Natural Disaster.

Or Terrorist Attack.

The view panned out from the bitch's pale, freckled face to the window behind her, looking down-

The Joker howled in glee, kicking his feet laughing, laughing, tears pouring out of his eyes pounding fists into the chair ribs aching hyperventilating jaw sore laughing laughing laughing!

And to think he thought his jokes were good.

14:33 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

Cruisers sped down the parkway, sirens blaring through red lights, barreling towards the rising black smoke and greyish, dusty cloud.

"This is Commissioner Gordon speaking. All units we are Code Five, I repeat Code Five. We have initiated FEMA protocol—"

"SHIT!" Lawless shouted, slamming the brakes. The dust cloud was still expanding, wafting down the road, a white-out of asbestos, plaster and glass. Around him, other crews were doing the same.

The Commissioner shouted over the radio, "Only medical and emergency vehicles on the streets! Park all squad cars on the sidewalks! We've got to get them through—"

Lawless sprinted after the Commissioner, racing to keep up. A fire truck went hurtling past them on the Parkway, sirens screaming. All around, for blocks upon blocks, sirens echoed and wailed, tinny and ominous in the grey fog. GCPD. GCFD. EMS. Men and women racing down the street, stumbling in the blinding cloud, desperate to reach the plaza.

Through the haze, a dark shadow grew. Closer and closer it loomed. Lawless stopped cold, realizing suddenly it was a host of survivors-

"Paltron!" Lawless' gruff voice rang. "Connolly!" No answer. They straggled past, maybe sixty of them, Red Cross and paramedics grabbing the weak and the injured-

"Gordon! Gordon wait!" Lawless shouted hoarsely, waist deep in rubble, scrambling over the still settling dust and debris of what was once the Wayne Legacy Foundation. "Gordon!" He erupted in a fit of coughing, choking on the dust and glass that now coated his face, his clothes, and his throat.

He passed more people, bewildered, hurt, confused. They looked at him, under the layer of dust, and couldn't even tell he was a cop. It was better this way, he thought. Better than the screams and pleading for help-

"Christ," He said, finally catching up with Gordon, five blocks out, taking his first look at the ruined remains. Twisted steel spires still jutted like shipwrecks from a sea of concrete and plaster, papery debris floating like a terrible autumn through the air. Not seeing the Foundation's familiar spire through the skyline had been bad enough, a jagged, naked scar on the horizon. The earthquake, the screaming, the sudden release of dust and ash that coated the city from fifteen blocks away…they were nothing compared to this.

"Paltron!" Lawless cried again, weaker and sickly in the muffling, suffocating dust. "Connolly!"

He looked helplessly over at the shell-shocked Commissioner. Grey dust had coated his hair, his clothes, even settling into his mustache, making him look older, more careworn and desperately tired than the Detective had ever seen him before.

"Paltron! Connolly!" Aaron shouted, the low, whooshing hiss of falling dust drowning the sound.

But there was no answer, and looking out at the utter ruin of the Joker's most recent revenge, he understood now there wouldn't be.

14:46 EST

Above Gotham City

"I've just received, received word that the first group of survivors has been found—" James' shaky voice rang through the cabin. "Sixty people were evacuated to Sisters of Mercy Convent for emergency treatment….other emergency sites include Gotham United Methodist Hospitals, Arkham Asylum, and all GCPSC gymnasiums.." she rattled off a long list of locations, prompted by the Network's voice in her ear, Paul standing behind the camera, changing the focus from her pale face to the carnage below.

Shaw continued to stare, stricken, out the window.

Bruce called Fox again.

14:58 EST

Gotham City Public Transit Station 213

Panting in the afternoon heat and the dense, suffocating dust, Renee Montoya shouted over the emergency band. "Officer needs assistance I repeat officer needs assistance! Estimated two hundred survivors taking refuge in subway I repeat, estimated two hundred survivors taking refuge in subway-!"

15:36 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"IV fluids!" Amy Lawless shouted, rushing yet another stretcher down the long hall to surgery. She had pulled the last bloated bag from the ER storage. "How many do we have in stock?"

"I, I think maybe eight hundred more in Ambulatory-"

"Save them!" She shouted, running an alcohol swab down the arm of the skinny thirteen year-old girl. "Have security bring 'em up here but give 'em only to unconscious patients! If they can swallow I want oral hydration, three hundred cc's every ten minutes for an hour!" Done. She ripped open the IV kit, dropping the contents on the bed sheet. "You!" She shouted to a pale faced, stricken aid. The trembling girl didn't belong on the floor in that state. "Make copies of any ID! Call families!" The young woman blinked and tore off, purpose giving her new strength…

No time to think, no time to worry, no time to weep…Amy pinched the fleshy bulge over the elbow, feeling the shrunken veins. Damn it, these kids had been sitting outside all day in the heat, they were already dehydrated-! She plunged the needle in, securing it with tape, then used a hypodermic to flush the site. "She's prepped!"

Dr. Chavez came thundering from the surgery room. "Bring her!" Amy grabbed the bedrail with her gloved hands, sprinting with the girl down the hall.

She wasn't scrubbed down, wasn't wearing a mask her gloved hands were filthy but she finished tearing the girl's clothes off as the anesthetic hit her. Wedged through the tiny girl's mid-back was a sharp shard of metal—probably from a car—resting millimeters from her kidney sack….Scalpel. Lancet. No time for worries about minimal scarring. Dark iodine rubbed over the site. "I'm going in. I'm clamping off the renal artery." Chavez explained, already through the dermal layers, a long, sweeping incision right under her ribs, cutting now crosswise through the pinkish muscles. "If this starts bleeding the whole thing's going to hell, okay? We'll have to cauterize the artery—"

"She'll lose her kidney!" Amy shouted, placing pins in the fatty flesh, holding it apart.

"And she'll live!" Chavez snapped. "Do we have a blood type?"

"We don't even know her name!"

"You call lab." He shouted. "Tell them I want a refrigerator of O brought to the ER, stat. Everyone's getting it unless they've got a driver's license!"

Tweezers around the shard, slowly, gently pulling back-

Explosion. Thick, viscous blood splattered from the site, Chavez swearing and suctioning it away. "I need that blood. I need it stat!"

15:58 EST

Above Gotham City

"Lucius!" Bruce yelped when Fox answered on the first ring. He had been dialing once every two minutes, receiving nothing but voicemail.

"Mr. Wayne?" Lucius' slow voice was hazy, distant. Confused.

"Lucius! What can we do?"

There was a long silence. "Mr. Wayne…I don't think even Batman could help in a situation like this…"

"Wayne Enterprises! With search and recovery!" Bruce said desperately. "Surely there's something we can do to help-"

"I was there," Fox whispered emotionlessly. "With my two granddaughters-"

"Shit, Lucius," Mikeala and Nichelle. He had forgotten-

"Their mother's picking them up…they're, we're fine….I'll, I'll look through the records to see if there's, if there's anything we can do."

Bruce hung up the phone, watching the rising smoke and dust that were the only remains of the Legacy. Wayne Enterprises brought all those people together, made them targets for the largest terrorist attack on American soil….She would not abandon them.

"Sir, we're going to have to land. Fuel tanks are getting low."

"Take us to Wayne Enterprises!" Bruce shouted through the Comm. He would meet Fox there. He looked back into the cabin, James still talking into the camera, reading emails sent via cell phone from the news corporation. She was pale and shaky, but goddamned determined. Shaw was still curled in misery on her seat, face covered in her hands, straight blonde hair now a tangled, worried mess. He reached back and touched her leg. "Hey," he tried to smile but couldn't. "It's going to be okay."

It was a lie. But what else could he say?

16:32 EST

Arkham Asylum Maximum Security Ward

"You heartless bastard! You did this you did this—!" security dragged the shouting nurse back as she kicked and screamed. "My daughter was there you bastard my daughter was there!"

Dr. Quinzel came running down the hall, purple high heels clicking with every hurried step. "We can't keep him here. Move him!"

"Where?" Frank Boles challenged. "We've got nearly two hundred people down in the cafeteria, all the rooms are full—"

"Morrison's room! It's empty. We've got to keep people away!"

"You want to protect HIM!" the nurse shrieked. "I'll kill you I'll fucking kill you too!"

"The safety of all our patients is my concern," Harleen said coldly. "She won't be the last. Put him in Morrison's room. Keep security outside this door."

Boles gaped. "You want us to transfer a maximum security prisoner to a patient care ward? Without security? Lady are you nuts!"

"Number one," Quinzel said fiercely. "These are patients, not prisoners! And secondly, you're going to have to! He's just as confined in a patient care ward as he is here. If you keep him here we're going to have break ins…and if this unit is breached, he won't be the only one to escape!"

She was right. Reluctantly, they consented. "We'll do what you want, ma'am," the chief of Arkham Asylum Security said. "But you're going to have to post this as a direct order. My men are not taking the heat for this one if it goes sour. I'm documenting this as contrary to advice and protocol—"

"You idiot!" Quinzel snapped. "If either of us document it's open for the whole system to read. Do you think it's a coincidence she was the first to attack him?" Hastily she scribbled a note, muttering vehemently about lost time and cowards. "This does not make it onto the computers," she hissed. "But it'll cover your ass. Now if you'll excuse me, I have patients to treat."

17:04 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Screams, shouts, bloodcurdling wails…in some places the rubble had begun to blaze. Everywhere Aaron went, there was suffering, someone needed him, needed his help…but he had to get to Paltron, had to find the Kid, pull him up from the wreckage wearing his small, shy smile and stupid purple T-shirt, had to introduce him to Gordon so he could buy him dinner…had to keep working his way towards the Legacy itself, had to see, to know for sure…

But it would be days, weeks, months, even, before this mess was cleared.

GCFD. The letters were blazoned on the dead man's suit. Damn. Aaron dug around the body, pushing his back into a crumbling slab of concrete and prying the corpse loose. Leave it, he thought, go on to the next…

There were dogs now, loosed on the edges of the pile, climbing, circling, searching for victims. Good. The dogs were good. Someone was still thinking, operating according to plan-

Plan. Aaron stopped dead in his tracks, remembering something the bastard had said: do I look like a man with a plan? His hideous laughter rang in Aaron's ears as he continued to climb the mountain of steel, concrete, glass and dust. What was left of Gotham's officers, civil servants, emergency and relief workers was now converging on this very spot…They would be fucking pants down for another explosion.

"Shit!" he said aloud, grabbing his phone and calling Gordon. The Commissioner's line was busy, and he cursed again, knowing it would be useless to call any emergency center at this time. Every line in Gotham would be ringing off the hook, the operators swamped, a city desperate for certainty, grasping for answers and reassurance…

But Detective Aaron Lawless was standing in the middle of Chaos, knowing the only certainty here was that there were none.

18:39 EST

Wayne Penthouse

Alfred Pennyworth woke suddenly, blinking in surprise. The parlor was in half light, the windows still open. Hastily he checked the wall clock, shocked to see the lateness of the hour.

My lands, he thought, standing shakily. I've missed the entire thing-

Bruce's speech would be taped of course, but he had hoped to watch it live…

6:39. The kitchen staff should be busy by now. He wandered in, wondering at the lack of activity, this afternoon's dishes still dirty and unscraped on the counter. How odd.

The sound of voices from the staff room. It sounded like television. He pushed open the door.

A pale, red-headed woman was on the giant screen, standing in the midst of what appeared to be a war zone. My God, Alfred's heart leapt. We've gone to war…

"Over three thousand people have been hospitalized so far…the National Guard is helping to evacuate non-critical patients to surrounding counties and their facilities… Lt. Governor Stephanie Miller has placed the entire City under military jurisdiction, and President Calderon has labeled Gotham a Crisis Zone-"

Alfred blinked. Gotham? Gotham City? But that would mean the reporter was here in Gotham…her pale, stricken face and voice grew eerily familiar in the silence. None of the kitchen staff spoke. Their eyes were glued to the television, faces traced in tears…

James. Rebecca James. That was her name.

She had to be here in Gotham. And that war zone, that fire, that smoke that hell and chaos behind her could only be one thing-

Panic.

Heart pounding, head reeling, Alfred stumbled through the kitchen, pain and dread growing in his chest. He coughed weakly, staggering to the window, and threw back the curtains.

Smoke. Ash. Dust. They covered a sinking, blood red sun in a sinister shadow. Alfred gasped for breath, falling, chest on fire, clutching one hand over the throbbing, aching pulse tearing through his left arm. His eyes widened in pain and shock, bluing lips pursing, mouthing Bruce.

19:00 EST

Wayne Enterprises

"What've you got for me?" Bruce asked, pacing behind the elderly man. Fox's weathered hands were in his short, greying hair, his head slumped forward on the desk. A picture of Mikeale and Nichelle—his nine year-old, twin granddaughters-lay on his lap.

"Not much, Mr. Wayne," he said, sighing and opening his dark eyes. "The Cardia. EMF technology with roots dating from the 90's. It detects electromagnetic fields-especially weak ones. US military has an exclusive contract, they use it for special ops missions…and extreme events, such as earthquakes, hurricanes, and, and even 9/11. The Chinese used something similar in 2008…This is a more updated model-better even than Geovox or Life-guard. Much more powerful, much more reliable. If it has a heartbeat, it'll show."

"And the range?"

"About half a mile. It's accurate, too, within half a meter, give or take. We developed this model for the military, strictly Black Ops. They're damn expensive, never manufactured commercially for search and recover, you'll understand…but it'd do the same thing: locate living people."

Bruce nodded, his desperation for answers, for help, for something to give back slowly fading into fierce determination. "That's good. What else?"

"Echolocation technology. If you can reboot it, that is," Fox turned, looking him in the eye. "Seventy-nine percent of the American public carries a personal cell phone…starting at age six. If the phones are on, we can tap their speakers, image the wreckage, model it in 3-D, give emergency services an idea where, where flare-ups and…bodies lay." He sighed, looking again at the picture of his family, running a tired, dark hand over its surface.

"We were late, you know," Fox's mild voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "If we had left on time we would have gotten there before the crowd…we would have been right there. Right in the plaza."

Bruce was silent. "You're here now," he said lowly. "And Mikeala and Nichelle are fine."

"We need to get this to MCU," Fox stood abruptly. "I've, I've been tampering with the machine. You'll need the original password to re-start."

"It's Lucius Fox." Bruce grunted, "Get it online. As for the Cardia-"

"Every existing proto-type is here," Lucius gestured to twelve sealed cases stacked under the desk. "It's a ray gun, uses auto-triangulation. Point and shoot. Even a kindergartener could use it."

"Echolocation," his voice was growing deeper, raspier. "Can it be moved? Onsite?"

Fox nodded. "Yes, Mr. Wayne. I believe it can. The signals will be stronger the closer they are—and a perimeter would help us triangulate."

"Good." Growling, gravelly, guttural. "We'll get them to Gordon."

"Mr. Wayne?" Fox asked hesitantly. His young employer turned, face a rictus of cold, calculating rage. It was no longer the face nor the voice of billionaire Bruce Wayne. It took a moment for Fox to realize it was the Batman, unmasked…

Even without cloak or armor, that anger was terrifying to behold.

19:25 EST

1900 E. Philadelphia Dr., Apartment #3578

Cameron Shaw unlocked her apartment door, slipping silently in and shutting it behind her. As soon as the lock clicked, she set the dead bolt with trembling fingers then collapsed into the frame, sliding slowly downwards until she sprawled sobbing on the cold tile floor.

She watched a building fall, crushing thousands, a co-worker among them. She was angry and afraid. She watched another co-worker muster the courage to face that fear, stepping up to the plate with grim determination.

Trisha was dead. All the jealousy she had ever had felt now so incriminating and petty. And now Beck had stepped forward to take her place. Trisha made a living out of her face and tits, achieving in one interview what took other journalists years. And now Beck had done the same. Seized a solid, permanent career in a matter of moments, when a nation looked for hope and trust and found only a pale, red-haired woman to guide them through.

Cameron Shaw cried for the dead.

But mostly she cried in jealousy and guilt.

20:37 EST

Gotham United Methodist

Darkness falling. Victims still pouring in. Many were simply dehydrated, confused, suffering panic attacks or even nervous breakdowns. For many it was psychological, raw emotional hurt. These patients needed friends, family, support-

But she did not have time. Today her job was stop the bleeding. Start the heart. No time for names or intimacy. Each was a life. Each must be saved. The stress of the ER shift was beginning to take it's toll…Amy Lawless' shaking hands bandaged yet another gaping cut, disinfected yet another scrape, wishing silently she could drink caffeine, praying urgently that the stress and panic, the adrenaline and fear hadn't already hurt the baby-

14:00. She rushed out the doors of the Ambulance Bay, staggering in shock at the sight and weeping on the pavement, clutching thin hands to her mouth. The asphalt stained her clothing, scratched up her knees…and she couldn't feel the baby's heart.

An elderly gentleman. Mid sixties. He was unconscious, a medicated coma. The stress of the news had taken it's toll on his body. Alfred Pennyworth. He had been lucky that friends or family knew CPR. It had taken nearly ninety minutes for EMS to reach him…but the waves on his telemetry said his heart was still pumping strong. He would make it through this. He would survive—

She finished signing off on his vitals and placed a gloved hand over her flat stomach, pressing deeply, hoping to feel a gentle, steady pulse. Her heart leaped—! then fell. Her own aorta, and nothing more.

20:52 EST

Near Gotham City Plaza

Darkness falling. Stadium lights hauled in, illuminating the wreckage. A fifteen storey parking garage groaned and collapsed, buckling under the structural damage of its foundation and the constant, steady vibrations of the heavy flow of emergency traffic.

Renee Montoya watched helplessly as the rushing ambulance she just loaded with two small children disappeared with sudden finality under the crushing mound of concrete and dust.

Around her, survivors choked and covered their eyes and mouths against the raging wind of gravel and cement. Two EMS workers and a driver. An ambulance. Things they couldn't afford to lose.

She held her head up, blinking owlishly through the settling dust. Her rationality sickened her.

21:49 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

The door swung open roughly, and Milton could hear protests from outside. Warily he spun from the monitors, gun up and at the ready.

He let his right arm drop. It was only Bradley.

"Man, what the hell? You can't bring civies in here-!" He protested as two plainclothes clamored wearily in behind his partner.

"I think you'll find we're not just civilians, Officer," Lucius Fox's smooth, reassuring tones began. "We're from Wayne Enterprises," he set a box-like silver case on the counter, deftly popping it open to reveal a padded interior and a strange looking, cathode gun, the tip a large, bowl shaped plate of steel. "And we believe we can help."

22:08 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

Officer Eugene Bradley sped down the cluttered road, sirens blaring, tearing through the maze of parked squad cars. The wind had change direction, and the Parkway was now clear and visible. In the passenger seat, the man who identified himself as Bruce Wayne sat still and emotionless.

"There she is," he stated. "The black van—"

"Looks like an Ops Center," Bradley noted, observing not only the dish antenna but the sliding door and lack of body windows. He handed Wayne a portable light. "Place this on the dash. Try to follow me as close as you can."

"You'll have a power source big enough for us?"

Bradley laughed humorlessly. "Wayne, you have any idea how many Watts go into one of those bad boys?" He gestured to the spotlights still visible thirteen blocks away. Lights Bruce recognized as sleeker, more modern designs, yet still comparable to the one Gordon used to fire into the night sky….

"Yeah, we've got you covered," the officer grunted, then the cruiser tore off again towards the glowing lights, wheels spinning and skidding on dusty pavement at sixty mph. Bruce followed as best he could, swerving in and out of the wreckage. But fifteen passenger vans-even modified ones—just weren't built for this kind of terrain.

If only he had the Tumbler.

22:35 EST

Near Gotham City Plaza

"Officer needs assistance I repeat Officer needs assistance!" Montoya barked over the comm. "I've got people who need help now!" She had evacuated most from the underground station, leaving behind only those too weak to stand or walk…but then the parking garage had fallen. Those left behind were now trapped, perhaps crushed. And she still had over a hundred out on the streets…

"I repeat Officer needs assistance!"

But she wasn't the only one. In concentric circles spreading for six blocks around the Plaza officers, medics, FD personnel, Red Cross Workers and National Guardsmen all shouted over the radio, each desperate to receive help for the victims in their charge…

Children whimpered. Grown men sat weeping openly. An elderly man toppled slowly sideways, heart giving out to exhaustion. She sprinted towards him, shouting into the radio, setting it down to start CPR.

Goddamn it. She found these people nearly eight hours ago. They should all have been evacuated by now-!"Officer needs assistance. I've got over a hundred live ones with me does anybody copy!"

"Montoya, that you?" A familiar voice came over the Comm. "We're targeting your position now, try to hold on—"

Press. Press. Press. Breathe. Press. Press. Damn. Damn. Come on, Come on!

"I had some left in the Subway! Station 213! They're trapped in there you've got to send FD to get 'em out!"

22: 48 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"We're sending help your way, Montoya!" Milton cried. "Hang in there!"

"You guys serious about this shit?" Bradley asked. "Cause this is as real as it's gonna get. You better hope to God that fucker works." Bruce held the Cardia gingerly against his chest, feeling suddenly quite ridiculous and out of place, as though posing for a Sci-fi shoot. The thing just didn't look real.

Fox held one as well, and he smiled tiredly and grimly. "Lock and load, Mr. Wayne."

"You three—" Milton shouted as they clamoured into Bradley's squad car. "Find and locate the collapsed station, see if there's any left alive. I'm notifying GCFD and I've got Medevac choppers returning from Methodist. Fifteen minutes out. Stay in contact!"

23:07 EST

Operator Log Methodist Hospital

FCC Emergency Frequency Band

Methodist One, Methodist One this is Medevac Chopper 418. Do you copy?

Medevac, this is Methodist One. We copy.

Inbound flight with six patients presenting critical condition. Estimated arrival time ninety-seven seconds. Request permission to land.

Permission Granted. Paramedics will meet you on rooftop. Pad two. Repeat, Pad two.

Methodist One, we have Pad two. Pad two. Estimated Arrival time forty-eight seconds.

Medevac 418, we have thirty-six seconds to arrival. Thirty-one seconds to arrival. Twenty-five seconds to arrival…

23:31 EST

Near Gotham City Plaza

"No, No, oh fuck NO!" Bruce shouted as yet another green light blipped, blinked, turned red and was lost. Eighteen dots. Eighteen fields. Eighteen pulses. Eighteen goddamned people…

GCFD had arrived. Begun digging into the tunnel from the surface, sending crews to stations 212 and 214…But they were too late. Far too late. Red lights blinking, flickering, hearts stopping, growing cold.

Fox sat shakily on the cluttered curb, one weathered hand on his drawn face. Too late. They had been too late. If only he had picked up his phone earlier, if only Marissa could've come faster for the twins, if only…

"GOD DAMNIT!" Bradley swore, kicking the hubcap of the cruiser, three toes of his left foot crushing and breaking against the unforgiving steel. He let out a primeval cry, falling to his knees, fists clenched in rage, loss and pain. They were right here they were right fucking here—! "Bastard," He whispered, tears prickling his eyes "You'll fucking pay for this."

Renee Montoya watched in silent shock, face twisted and contorted in sorrow and fury. 15:00. That's when she found them. Shepherded them. Led them. Seven hours. Seven fucking hours they had and fucking no one could get to them…

All around, her survivors were being loaded into ambulances, walked by GCEMS, Red Cross Volunteers, GCFD. She had found two hundred. She'd lost twenty-one. Each face flashed vividly before her eyes, people muttering she did what she had to, did what she could… it wasn't her fault.

A young mother clutched her small daughter as a stretcher wheeled past, holding the blonde child's bruised and bloody face to her chest, whispering to her soothingly: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…And yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no Evil. For You are with me, Your rod and Your Staff, They comfort me…

Comfort? Forsaken. Left. Abandoned. Dead. There was no comfort for her here. Montoya sat miserably in the open passenger's side of Bradley's cruiser, face in her olive hands, rocking slowly, finally finding the strength to cry.

Dios mio, Dios mio, por qué me has desamparado?

GCPD Officer Eugene Bradley knelt next to the cruiser, violent red and blue flashing and reflecting in it's sleek, black surface. He recognized the words, bowing his head with her in a cry that was more an accusation: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?

But there was no comfort in those words. Only a terrible, terrible truth. If there truly was a God who was good, He had utterly forsaken them.

23:32 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Fred Milton threw the headset across the interior of the tracking room, pounding a shaking fist against the acrylic counter, swearing and sobbing. Goddamn it they were so fucking close-!

23:41 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Rebecca James cringed as Chris Holden's voice relayed the information in her ear. Behind the camera, Paul tensed, his bloodshot eyes looking wonderingly into hers. She brushed a strand of ruined red curls from her face as a chopper flew overhead.

"We've, we've just received word that eighteen people have died in Transit Station 213. The Parking Garage above the station collapsed, trapping survivors inside—" her voice broke, but she continued narrating, head held high, weary green eyes focused fiercely into the camera. "This brings the Legacy's official death toll to nine-hundred, sixty, sixty-five…"

23: 43 EST

Sisters of Mercy Memorial Garden

Darkness. They left the Convent in a long train of mourning, heads bowed, flesh glowing eerily with the flickering of votive candles. Next to the towering church was an empty lot, trampled weeds and thistles growing up from the foundations of a ruined building. Nearly twelve hundred were already gathered.

The Sisters of Mercy joined the sad circle of mourners and vigil holders, speaking no words but crying out in their hearts.

Twenty-four year old Sister Theresa Margaret, long, long ago Maggie Kyle, stood silently in the shadow of a beaten, weathered statue: an Archangel, wings unfurled, the concrete broken in many places, only the vague form and the solemn face still recognizable. A large sliver had cracked from the right cheek leaving a dark, running scar. In the wavering light, the Angel, like the silent Sister, could almost be weeping.

23:46 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"Clear!" Chest jumping, limbs twitching. "Clear!" Eyes rolling, whites gleaming-

Nothing. The EKG was flat, the extended, eerie whine the only sound in the silence.

Dr. Mark Chavez hung his head. Nine-hundred sixty-six. "Time of death, 11:46 PM."

His heart stopped beating. His heart stopped beating dead dead the man the baby her baby was dead—! Hands trembling, knees shaking, Amy Lawless removed the EKG pads, covering the dead face with a starched white sheet, and began the long, slow walk to the Methodist morgue.

23: 47 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Awake.

Alone in the dark. Paralyzed. Entombed.

Silence. Darkness.

And Alone. Terribly, fearfully, unbearably Alone.

Please God please someone oh please anything anything not alone not alone-!

Something warm. A hand! A woman's soft hand, lying limp and lifeless next to his. He reached and sobbed, fingers aching to draw it close…

He would hold it, kiss it, pressing, desperate, his only comfort, only hope for the next fifteen endless hours.

23: 55 EST

Ground Zero, Gotham City

Aaron Lawless blinked. A chopper wheeled overhead, long spirals of dust lifting and floating from the smoking wreckage. A strange, sobbing noise. A baby? He climbed achingly over the wreckage, forcing himself faster towards the sound.

Dogs. Thirteen dogs. Moaning. Licking. Whining dogs. And somehow their crying was worse than a baby, worse than a child, worse than any human at all. Bleeding and burned they lay on their sides, protesting their innocence to whatever god who had determined it so…

Gordon. Lawless blinked again. He was barely recognizable, face blank, lost, eyes staring and empty.

"Medic!" A fireman appeared through the smoke and haze, knocking the Detective over in his haste. "I need a medic!" In his arms lay a limp little girl.

"We need and ambulance!"

"There are no more ambulances!"

"Christ she's going into shock!"

Lawless raised himself to his hands and knees, trembling in pain, exhaustion, and growing dread. He rose shakily, heart dropping. The little girl was dead.

Flashing lights. Roaring blades. Flickering, dancing ash and water. Hoarse shouts and terrible screams. He blinked again, dread giving way to horror as Commissioner Gordon swayed, staggered, and collapsed.

"GORDON!"

23:59 EST

Ground Zero, Gotham City

"Jesus, Gordon. I thought you were having a stroke," Lawless' gruff, ragged voice cut through the darkness. "Gordon? Gordon!"

Jim Gordon coughed, sitting up on the tail of the ambulance, his eyes slowly coming back into focus in this epileptic nightmare. "I need to…to call Barb. Let her know I'm okay—"

Gordon coughed again, wiping his face and taking the sharp oxygen tubes out of his parched nostrils.

"Mr. Gordon-Commissioner!" Lawless turned. Shit. Just what they needed…a red-haired reporter tailed by a broadcasting camera stood in front of them. "Sir, what, what can you tell us?"

Gordon blinked slowly as dust and smoke rained down through the shafts of the stadium lights. His answer was both hollow and confused.

"I… I don't know..."

Rebecca James looked back into the camera, then let out a sob and dropped the microphone. She staggered to her knees and fell, weeping.

"Beck? Beck!" Chris Holden's tinny voice soothed in her ear. "Honey, you can't do this. You're live—"

Live. Alive. All those people! Trisha! Oh God Gracie! And 213—! And the redhead reporter only sobbed harder.

"Barb? This is Lawless!" Aaron shouted into the mouthpiece, insides tearing at her panicked plea "No, he's fine! He's right here! Look, he can't talk right now but he's fine, I promise…yeah, that was him…it'll be okay Barb, alright? Jim's okay…"

But it wouldn't be okay. Christ, Paltron was dead. The Kid was dead. A young woman wept. Dogs moaned piteously. People screamed. Flames erupted in the rubble. Foaming water and burning ash met hissing in the air. Medics hustled past with three stretchers…

Armageddon.

He turned back to Gordon.

A detective, a nation and a city looked to one man, one leader for hope, but found themselves thrust bleakly into Fitzgerald's despair: All wars fought, all gods dead, all faith in men utterly shaken.

There would be no answers this side of paradise.

24:00. Tuesday, August 20th.

The Dawn would be long in coming.


	10. Chapter 10

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 26th

14:00 EST

TV 18 Studios

"You look like shit," Lawless says, stopping feet from me. "And you're fucking late." Wayne and Fox stare nervously at us until Lawless attempts a haggard smile.

Blood drips from my knee and it nearly buckles as he puts his hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly, looking me over from feet to head. "Tangle with a cement mixer?"

"It was a Porche, actually," I state evenly, jerking my head to Wayne.

"For which I've offered my sincerest apologies—" he begins, but Lawless ignores him, hazel eyes boring straight into mine, delving deeper, our last conversation hanging heavy and silent between us: The old Berettas. The 92F's…you ever have one not work for you?

He knew.

He brings his head down to mine, our foreheads touching. "It's damn good to see you," he finally whispers.

August 26th

14:03 EST

TV 18 Studios

We leave Wayne and Fox behind. I am limping after Lawless, panting up the stairs. GCPD is everywhere. CSI, MCU, Homicide…I know nearly every face. Pain and exhaustion. I see them as though through a veil. No longer one of them, our worlds of sound and color, justice and order flickering together, only briefly coinciding…

Beaten, sweaty, shaking and fevered…I am nearly unrecognizable.

It's easy to see where the bodies must lay-a long hall leads to the staging room, and it's swarming with cops and EMS. Lawless shoulders through and I stagger behind, aching to keep up. Every step ricochets pain up my side, every sidelong glance bringing my guilt again before me.

Killer. Killer. Killer.

Lights flash, the media is here, CSI sweeps the scene, officers keep inquiring civilians and reporters away from that long hall. The blinding lights sear my retinas, leaving blue spots in my blinking eyes…

For a moment, I hear voices:

Sickofreakfuckingchildmolesterthey'llgetyouinpriso nyou'llgetwhat'scoming—!

Blinding flashing camera lights and pulsing arms reaching garbage thrown I am pressed, hemmed, pulled, dragged,…Dent is at my side and blows meant for me rain down on him. They shove me down the crowded white steps of Gotham City Court House, hands bound behind my back, a squad car with an open door waiting at the base of the long marble stairs.

YouwereapoliceofficerApoliceofficerweweresupposedt obeabletotrustyou—!

The mob is shouting, I am staggering. The riot squad is broken they rush through-

Tear gas. Rubber bullets. I am shoved to the ground. They take no chances-even my security detail wishes me a long, healthy life in prison.

Hopeyoulikeitinmemorialhopethey'rerealfriendlyhope togodyou'recellmate'safuckingdyke—!

They hate nothing worse than a dirty cop…unless it's a child molester. And I am both. They scream and mock, hurling insults, shoes, garbage and death threats. Dent covers my head, shouting enough already, enough!

Seewhatit'sliketogetfuckedseehowyouliketogetfucked —!

Can't see can't move angry feet wheel dancing all around Riot One calls for backup assistance people trampled underfoot Dent is ripped from me head slammed into the marble steps, taste of blood, ache of chipped teeth…

I am surrounded by an angry tide, dragging me, drowning me, pulling me under. I feel a pang: Angel. Is he watching? His beautiful face, his innocent eyes, running to Gerald who offers him the hopeful deceit of warm, loving arms. He is eight, a young eight. Much too young to understand. My words hang like a shield over me as fists rain down, men in Kevlar struggle to protect me: They will take me from you and lie to you and tell you I did those things to you and you can never, ever see me again because I'm a fucking child molester who deserves to die in prison anyway and the lies, lies, lies I will take and bear in your name because I love you, Angel-

Youwereapoliceofficeryouweresupposedtoprotecthim—!

Lights flash, women screaming, world spinning—

A final blow, a kick to the ribs. Vision blackens, Angel's lips part, they tear me away. A horrible, horrible doubt seizes me: Angel. Does he know it to be a lie? Or will this—all this—only re-affirm to him my guilt?

I blink, my eyes coming back from unfocused darkness; vision, hearing and consciousness fight through a growing, colorless haze. We reach the end of the long hall, the flashing bulbs dying into the background. I need to rest, to slow down…

But I'm so close. I just need to see.

Lawless slips in. I am checked at the door.

August 26th

14:07 EST

TV 18 Studios

"No civilians past this point, ma'am," Detective Crispus Allen holds out a strong arm to stop me. Montoya's partner. I've worked with him for the past six years. I see him every day at dual headquarters, yet he doesn't know me.

Lawless looks back as I fumble for my badge. Dmitri. Girls. Dogs. Swastika, swinging sign, broken tracks…

Allen snatches the mirrored sunglasses from his eyes with a large, dark hand, staring first at the badge, then into my face intently. Recognition and growing horror dawn in his deep eyes. "Paltron?"

I nod.

"Shit, woman. You don't look so good. Here, you need to sit down—"

Lawless puts a hand on his arm. "She's fine, Crispus."

They exchange glances, and Allen bites his lips, surveying me doubtfully.

"Stand down, Officer," I state cooly, hand extended. He returns me the badge and my fingers grasp it weakly. Cold, cold sweat is beginning to pool on my palms and forehead.

We continue on. The staging floor is right ahead, studio lights surround the narrow hall, miles of thick, black extension cord weave in ever-merging bundles along the walls. A group of EMS workers sits next to a weeping woman, face smeared in greasepaint. She takes a proffered blanket and rubs her face over and over and over again, the oil based paints slicking and matting to its rough fibers.

We round the corner, tile turning suddenly to hardwood beneath us.

One long, finger-like puddle of jellied blood has drained from under Holden's desk to the very edge of the staging floor. It is dusty and viscous, no longer bright. It ends, dark and ominous, not inches from my weary feet.

What is this thing you have done? Your brother's blood is crying out to me from the ground…

Killer. I am Cain. I can offer nothing to this silent accusation.

August 26th

14:15 EST

TV 18 Studios

All the world's a stage. The curtain opens, the spotlights shining down. Two men lay dead in the middle of the set, and the detective and his trusty sides kick enter the scene, determined, of course, to find whodunit.

But we were in the audience. We saw Act 1. We know even now the Killer lurks backstage until the next scene, when he will enter and kill again. The drama, to us, has lost its appeal…

This is a crime scene. Yet they treat it like a comedy.

Once CSI is done, cat litter will be brought in to soak up the blood. It will sit for maybe half an hour, then shovels will scoop it into biohazard bags to be ceremoniously disposed of at forensics. The Joker nearly decapitated Holden, splintered vertebra naked and exposed to the hot and stuffy air. They will bag him respectfully, taking samples of skin, hair, and blood before tagging his toe and sending him off to the Coroner. Over sixteen people were eye-witnesses, over a million television viewers can vouch for the murder weapon…and yet Gotham City Coroner's Office must make an official investigation. Nora Fields will continue the Joker's work, taking a bone saw to his already mutilated head, brain, heart, lungs and arteries must all be thoroughly examined and documented on…

Baxter's body too will be stripped naked, cut open, blood shunted, organs removed, a corpse defiled. All so they can determine succinctly that he died of 'natural causes.' And yet the criminal responsible escapes to the streets, loosed once again. Gotham's tax dollars at work, protecting her.

Lights flash again, CSI cameras, recording the scene from every angle, every distance…

Youwereacopyouweresupposedtoprotecthimyouwereacopw etrustedyou—!

I am disgusted. I understand their anger. I, too, am tired of the corruption and bureaucracy that allow criminals to stalk our streets. No more, they cry, no more!

It will be fourteen years to the day come this Christmas Eve. I look down to the dark, accusatory blood beneath my feet. If they call for a savior, how ironic, how bitter that it should be I who answers.


	11. Chapter 11

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 26th

14:23 EST

TV 18 Studios

Holden.

Angel.

Both lie broken and dead. I sit heavily on the hardwood floor, fighting a nauseating flow of images and pain. So much blood, so much blood the air is sickly, salty and sweet with its scent—

Gerald heaves a last sputtering breath. For nearly thirty seconds I stand, trembling in rage, chest heaving, heart racing breath hissing tears streaming—

Then I vomit, the knife clattering from my shaking fingers. I reel to my knees, adrenaline consuming me. Blood and urine soak the carpet, seeping out into the hall. Blood pours down the walls, blood is spattered across the ceiling. It greases my hands, drips warm and sticky down my face.

No regrets. No remorse. Only release…

In that moment I could never have guessed that this same dark victory would both haunt and carry me for the next thirteen years.

August 26th

14:27 EST

TV 18 Studios

Raised voices. Footsteps.

"Alright folks, you know the routine," a man's voice booms. "Tag 'em and bag 'em! Let's get goin'! God, what a mess."

I know that voice: Ronald Probson, MCU commander and world class asshole. "Jesus Christ!" His heavy, bumbling footsteps echo on the hardwood behind me. "What idiot let a woman in here? Great, just great. That's the last thing I need—"

Probson lays a greasy hand on my shoulder. "Ma'am, I'm gonna have one of these nice officers escort you out—"

I rip his hand off, flash him my badge, and flip him the bird.

August 26th

14:29 EST

TV 18 Studios

I stand slowly, stiff, weak…old.

I need help. Bleeding, battered, broken. Even now it is difficult to ask for.

Lawless crosses the floor, ignoring a sputtering, apologetic Probson. "Ready to go?" his hand is tight on my arm.

I nod. He leads me away. I take one final, backwards glance. Behind me, Holden and Baxter lie still and silent.

AngelAngel! He drops my Angel broken defiled dead blood pours from his small mouth I press my hands to the matte canvas screen, AngelAngelohgodohchristohfucknotAngel—!

The screen goes blank. He disappears. Lights flick on, silence sits heavily chairs scraping back Ramirez sobs Lawless stands the door swings open shut open shut open shut…I have no eyes for them, outstretched fingers still tracing the fading image of his perfect face, his impossible eyes…even in death he is so horribly, agonizingly beautiful—

Gordon's voice, sincere and mild. "I'm sorry, Paltron."

No tears. I am empty. I am spent. Gordon's footsteps echo down the hall. I am alone.

Angel is dead. No turning back. I made a promise and Memorial was nothing, nothing, it is death this time that calls to me. I caress the screen, one last time, eyes closed, his face still etched in my retinas.

I wrench away. Door. Hallway. Marble staircase. I blink in the heat and glory of the afternoon sun. It is fading and dying, a deep blood red, smoke pours over the horizon. Gotham. Alive. Angel dead. Hell is no longer the only realm where innocent angels are put cruelly to death.

The long, parched sidewalk, garbage and debris crunch under my unfeeling feet. I dare not raise my lidless eyes for hope, for understanding, for forgiveness…for peace. I know now there is none.

Gotham Memorial Hospital construction site. Dumpsters of wreckage, the whine of cranes the drone of drills the clatter of steel on steel the rent, gaping pits of bare earth flickering in the fading sun and rising, choking heat. Fumes rise, ash, and dust over a bloody sun tainting the whole world in blackened blood…

Angel. Dead.

I grip the rusty chain link perimeter fence, steel diamonds etching the skin of my forehead, fingers twisting tearing wrenching at my iron enemy, choking on rage, agony, bitterness. I release the fence, falling, face buried in chaffed hands rust like dried blood I stare, shaking. My guilt is ever before me.

A black, poisonous desire spreads through me like cancer: I would rather spend an eternity in Hell than one more moment in the presence of a deity who could do this….all this…and yet have gall to pretend Himself my saviour.

It is three blocks, three long blocks to my apartment, and only darkness awaits me. Yet I am Racheal. I will not be comforted. Call me Mara. God has dealt bitterly with me.

We round the corner, the hardwood floor disappearing again into tile. I tear my eyes away. I came here for closure.

I have found none.

August 19th

14:36 EST

TV 18 Studios

Lawless is a pillar, a rock. He steers me back down the long hallway, camera bulbs flashing, microphones thrust in our faces. "No comment!" Lawless barks, a steadfast answer in a tossing, tumultuous sea of Babel:

"Ma'amwereyouheredidyouseetheJokerwhathappenedcany outellusanythingofficerwhathappened?"

"No fucking comment!" Lawless' glare burns over my bowed head, silencing my tormenters.

We walk again the long hallway, and we leave them behind. The sound of rustling paper, upraised voices, and the crackling of microphones dies slowly down. I stagger back down the stairs, leaning heavily on Lawless' arm. I stop dead on the final step.

Gordon. Commissioner James Gordon. He is with the GCPD canine unit, a handler juggling the leashes of two yawning bloodhounds to point in my direction. My knee gives out. I sit heavily on the marble tile, the weight of my pain, my guilt, my shame pressing me down. I lower my gaze to the floor. My heart pounds in fear and doubt. I dare not look at him.

"James Gordon, do you swear to tell the truth, all whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I swear."

My face is in my handcuffed hands, laid against the table top. I raise my eyes slowly through my shaking fingers, glancing up through strings of sweaty hair. Gordon. I feel relief. Gordon. Gordon knows me. Gordon will vouch for me-

The prosecuting attorney walks him through December seventh, eighth and ninth. The interview lasts nearly an hour. The whole time, Dent scrawls notes and questions in rapid succession. My stomach is sinking, sinking down as the interview progresses. Gordon refuses to make eye contact. There can only be one reason: he believes me guilty. But Angel's secret must be silenced. I have locked it away behind my lips. Come what may, I must bear this burden, will pay any price—no matter how horrible—to love him…

Let me help you. Dent shoves a scrap of paper across the bench. I avert my eyes. I can't help you if you won't talk to me!

Surillo nods to Dent. "Are there any questions from the defense?"

"Yes, your honor." Dent stands, walking briskly in front of the judge's stand. "You told my colleague that my client's relationship to the boy was 'decidedly out of character,' " he checks his notes. "What did you mean by that?"

"Objection, your honor—"

"Overruled," Surillo states succinctly.

Jim sighs heavily, his mild tones barely amplified by the small microphone. "I'd never seen her like that before."

"Before the night of December the seventh, had you ever personally witnessed the defendant interact with children?"

"No."

"And just how then would you determine her relationship to be decidedly 'out of character' if you had no past experience to reference?"

"Objection, your honor—"

"Overruled," Surillo says coolly. "Mr. Gordon, please answer the question."

Jim blinks. "Her behavior was…most unusual."

"And by unusual, do you mean sexual?" Dent holds him in an intense stare, a grim smile on his face. "Those are the charges, are they not? Kidnapping, Forcible rape, Child rape, Sodomy of a minor by instrument—"

"Mr. Dent, we are all very much aware of the nature of your client's charges!" Prosecution barks, standing to her feet. "Now will you please continue examining the witness?"

Surillo raps the gavel, demanding silence. "You, sit down," she orders sternly. Prosecution glowers, lowering herself to the waiting bench with as much composure as she can muster. Surillo turns back to the Witness Stand. "Answer the question, Mr. Gordon."

"Yes," Jim whispers.

"Sorry," Dent says, stepping closer. "But which question were you answering?"

"The charges."

"And what about the defendant's relationship with the boy? What you witnessed? Would you—on the night of December the seventh, and December the eighth—have described it as sexual?"

"I—yes, possibly."

Dent paces in front of the stand, and I lower my face again to the table, it's cool, polished surface smooth against my skin. It reflects perfectly, a deep, rich darkness…liquid and light like my Angel's eyes…

"Mr. Gordon, you told my esteemed colleague that your partner's relationship to the boy in question was decidedly out of character. You have now amended that to 'ususual' and finally, 'possibly sexual.' What basis can you give us for making this determination? How long have you known the defendant?"

"Nearly four years."

Dent continues to pace. I have spent countless silent hours in his presence now, and know it is a sign not of nervousness but of thinking. The constant, steady tick of his feet permeates all my memories of our endless interviews.

"And in what capacity have you known the defendant?"

"We were partners. We worked together closely," Jim amends.

"And are you currently or have you ever been in any way romantically or sexually involved with the defendant," Dent stops again, directly in front of Gordon. "It might seem superfluous to remind you, Mr. Gordon, but you are under oath."

Jim's answer is indistinguishable. Even here, with the weight of this jury upon me, I cannot help but heave a bitter smile. Gordon is fiercely loyal to Barbara…and I? I was abandoned by the only man who ever claimed to love me. I love Angel relentlessly. But I will never do something so foolish as to let myself be loved again.

"Mr. Gordon, please answer the defense's question," Surillo's voice is cold.

"No," he states defiantly, leaning forward into the microphone, the first time his mild voice has risen to anything about a whisper.

"No?" Dent asks in mock surprise. "Then on what experiential basis do you judge her relationship with him to have been 'possibly' sexual?"

There are murmurs from the crowd, some angry, some amused. Prosecution looks affronted. "Objection, your honor!"

"Overruled!" Surillo barks.

Gordon is silent.

"And, if 'possibly' sexual, what apology can you offer as to why these suspicions were not reported immediately to Child Protective Services? You are, in fact, aware that State Law requires the documentation of suspected child abuse or neglect by any licensed teacher, social service worker, government employee, medical personnel…as well as every civilian adult? With negligence of performing these duties constituting complicity in any act of neglect or abuse/"

"Objection, your honor! Mr. Gordon has the right to deign self-incriminating information."

Surillo leans back in that uncomfortable wooden seat. "Objection noted."

"Then," Dent says, dark eyes boring into Surillo's, "I am positive that a separate investigation will be opened looking into possible negligence surrounding this case—" he has balls. And a mouth. If he isn't careful, he'll be called in contempt.

Surillo agrees. "Mr. Dent, you will resume questioning the witness, not me, and will refrain from making such assumptions again in this court."

A low murmur eats through the faceless crowd behind me.

"Yes, your honor," Dent acquiesces gracelessly, turning his attention back to Gordon. "So, Mr. Gordon, you did not immediately report suspicious activity to CPS. Could a possible explanation be that you had no such initial suspicions regarding a sexual relationship between my client and the boy in question?"

I raise my eyes to Gordon.

"Yes, no. I," Gordon stops, unable to look at me. Dent is dancing with his words, hoping to trip Gordon through syntax and style. He has nothing else to go by. I haven't pled, have offered him nothing…I respect him against my will. He is a court appointed attorney, he believes me guilty of a heinous act—an act so terrible and disgusting that I killed its perpetrators—yet he fights a losing battle…like Robert E. Lee, a cause for which he does not stand. Yet he still fights tenaciously with both poise and tact.

Gordon is no fool. He is silent a long, long time, mulling the question and his answer. Finally he speaks. " I had no such initial suspicions. I thought it was….odd. And out of—" Gordon stops, flushing. "I thought it was odd. Nothing more."

Dent nods, feet ticking anxiously at the hardwood flooring. "So you admit your initial impression was one of oddness, and that it is only in reflection that you see the defendant's relationship to have been 'possibly sexual?' "

"Yes."

"And when did these reflections begin, Mr. Gordon? Did you reach this 'possible' conclusion before, or after, you heard what charges the defendant was faced with?"

"I, I don't know."

"Then think. Did you believe the defendant to engage in predatory behavior, or exhibit pedophilic tendencies, before the night of December the seventh?"

"No."

"And on December the seventh?"

"No."

"And on December the eighth? You admittedly spent nearly twenty hours in close contact with both the defendant and the boy in question. Did you experience any suspicions then? Did you witness the defendant in any behaviors that may be compromising or 'possibly' sexual?"

"I, I didn't suspect anything then, no."

"Do you have reason to be suspicious now? Outside of the alleged accusation? I must remind you the defendant is innocent until proven guilty."

"I, yes. In retrospect, yes."

"And what, Mr. Gordon, was it about the defendant's behavior that you now consider incriminating?"

Gordon is silent. My heartbeats are loud in my ears, the echo of Dent's pacing footsteps. I know what Gordon will say: Angel's head against my breasts, my lips on his face, one hand in his hair…his tiny hands, cherubic smile, sleepy, contented eyes….tears well in my own, dripping fat and round onto the reflective surface of the polished table. Jim how could you think that—? How could anyone think it was anything but what it was—!

"Mr. Gordon, you said the defendant was 'holding' the boy in question. Is this the behavior to which you refer?"

Gordon nods. Surillo probes him. "Mr. Gordon, please answer the defense's question."

"Yes," Gordon states.

"Thank you, Mr. Gordon." Dent continues. "Describe for us what you mean by holding, please."

Gordon glances at me involuntarily, shuddering. "She, she—"

"Pardon, Your Honor, Mr. Gordon, but I want to set the record clear. By 'she' are you referring to the defendant?"

"Y-yes," Gordon says. "Detective Palt—yes. The defendant," he cannot even speak my name without swallowing, as though choking on both guilt and bile.

"Continue," Surillo orders.

"She—the defendant—had the boy sitting in her lap."

"And that behavior is…suspicious?" Dent queries. "How so?"

Gordon lowers his eyes, unable to look out at the crowd, unwilling to face the deluge of cameras. He finds himself as culpable as me. To stand by and do nothing, nothing. He has seen the pictures, the evidence…and it eats him like acid. If there is one thing Jim Gordon will do it is amend his mistake. He will see me charged, he will see me guilty, he will see me brought to justice. He is Honor. That is what he does.

"I had no reason to be suspicious then. But I had worked in SVU before Homicide."

"And under what circumstances did you leave SVU?"

"I was transferred-voluntarily," Gordon whispers. "I no longer wished to work with such cases."

"And do you believe your experience with SVU is what caused you to become suspicious of your partner's behavior?"

"Yes."

I know it bitterly and all too well. I have the perfect profile: Single. Good standing member of society. Community Service Worker. Respected. Rejected. Three psychologists analyzed my silence, my apartment, my medical history…. my husband left me and now I'm so fucking alone I MUST crave sexual attention in any manner that will make me powerful and dominant…I can't have kids will never have kids therefore I MUST be a sociopath, molesting child-hater…

Gordon relates this all to Dent, as succinctly and objectively as possible. He even calls for the physical evidence to be brought back in, pictures passed to the jury, slides of skin cells, hair, a bag of child's clothing… a bloody sheet, a scarlet soaked mattress, the medical findings of Angel's examination-

The audience sits, faces alternately stony or weeping. Barbara Gordon sobs openly, face twisted and buried in her trembling hands. Judge Surillo has turned a whiter shade of pale, prim lips pressed, jaw set. Every mother, every woman in this room is shaking in rage or sorrow. Or both.

Gordon goes through them carefully. Methodically. I recognize his style. I realize it was he who collected the data, he who swabbed my shower my sinks my counters, he who supervised the removal of my mattress, coating it in plastic, driving it to evidence, he who interviewed the ER personnel, he who collected the bloody sheet, he who traced my car….and all in a bitter and vain attempt to somehow find me innocent.

After fifteen minutes, Dent interrupts him. "With witnesses like you, Mr. Gordon, one hardly needs a prosecuting attorney." Prosecution glares, but Surillo silences her with one imperial glance. Dent resumes his pacing, thinking, contemplating, trapped. He has no more room in which to run, no space left to maneuver. "And you are convinced, are you not, Mr. Gordon, that there can be no alternative explanation?"

"I have looked for one," Jim whispers. "God as my witness I have looked for one."

Dent is silent, his conscience catching up with him. He can no more pretend that the details of my case do not bother him. Even the ever present scuffling sound of his shoes has finally and terribly ceased. He raises his eyes and speaks.

His next questions—and Gordon's answers—will seal my guilt.

"You purport to have known the defendant well?"

"I believe I may have been the closest person to her, yes."

"One final question, Mr. Gordon. Just one. Consider carefully-as a partner, your relationship with the defendant, and as an officer experienced in these mattes-the presented evidences and testimonies. Can you or do you both personally and professionally find the defendant to be guilty of the crimes she is charged with?"

Gordon removes his glasses, wiping his sweating face on his shirt. He reaches for a Styrofoam cup and drains it. He replaces the glasses with shaky hands and clears his throat. "The evidences are…undeniable." A sudden hush has fallen, a silence so grave even Jim's mild voice carries, loud enough for all to hear. It is a death knell in my heart. He looks directly into my eyes, piercing me, pinning me both silent and still. I dare not move, dare not blink, dare not breathe lest I betray myself here at the end. I am guilty—must be guilty—to silence Angel's secret. "Testimony of neighbors as well as GCPD vehicle tracking place her at the scene of the kidnapping. Testimony as well as hospital security again place her concretely at Gotham Memorial Hospital…and the, the overwhelming, the sheer….volume of physical evidence-the boy's skin cells, hair, and blood-collected both from her person and from the Philadelphia apartment—"

His voice breaks. He chokes back tears, removing his glasses again and wiping them away. "I am, convinced, in light of these evidences, that Officer…that she, that the defendant, my partner, Officer Guinevere Paltron, returned to the house on Decmember eighth, kidnapped the boy from his remaining parent, killed four eye-witnesses, then proceeded to take him back to her apartment where she…abused him, before delivering him to Emergency Services personnel at Gotham Memorial Hospital."

A long, trembling sigh shivers through my lips. Twin tears burn down my cheeks.

Dent closes his eyes, face lifted towards the ceiling. He had counted on friendship's weakness...had hoped for professionally, not personally. Had overlooked Jim Gordon's unbiased, unwavering, uncompromising justice. It is now too late to retract the question.

Dent sighs. "Mr. Gordon, answer the question, please. Do you find the defendant to be guilty as charged?"

"Beyond all shadow of doubt," Gordon whispers. "Either reasonable...or simply hoped for."

Now Gordon is again in front of me. I am silent, head bowed. I dare not raise my eyes to his face, to look at a man so fiercely loyal yet honorable beyond compromise or the shadow of suspicion. Gordon pities, yes. He understands.

But he can never condone.

I can stop this here. Confess, or forever remain silent, hoping in this chaos my crimes will go unnoticed…

But in my heart I know that Angel's killer cannot remain unpunished.

August 26th

14:40 EST

TV 18 Studios

Gordon surveys me closely, absorbing every detail from my haggard face to my bloodied knee. For a long moment he is speechless. Lawless lays a hand on his arm, pulling him away. "Jim, listen—"

I shudder as false relief eats through me. This is but the eye of the storm. I will still have to face unwavering justice of Jim Gordon.

"Miss, are you sure you're alright?" It's Fox's voice. I turn slowly, eyes refocusing on his dark face. He and Wayne have been here in the Atrium this entire time. Fleetingly I wonder what it is they are here for…

"You don't look…well, Miss…Paltron?" Wayne begins hesitantly, sitting next to me. "I'd really feel better if you saw a doctor-you're a police officer, you know? If I leave before EMS gets to you isn't that considered a hit and run? Or am I excused because you're the one who ran off?" It is a failed attempt at humor. I close my eyes, and lean against the banister. Exhaustion, like heavy, irresistible waves rolls slowly over me.

Wayne lowers his voice, all vestige of humor vanished. "You wouldn't have seen a young woman in there, twenty-five or twenty-six? Blonde? Cameron Shaw?"

I shake my head no, falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. I catch snatches of Lawless' conversation. I hear Lawless growling psychological leave, temporary leave of duty…depression, stress…for God's sake, Jim, suicidal—! Wayne hears the last word, I can tell. He tenses suddenly, shifting, an inadvertent, sidelong glance in the shrinking silence.

"…Connolly's death," Jim answers lowly, almost pitying.

Connolly. Jimmy. Angel—!

Gerald lies dead, I fall to my knees, the knife clattering from my hand. I am covered in urine and blood, chest heaving, throat burning, tears splashing. Destroy the evidence, Gerald had yelled. Blood drips off the bed covers, hot and heavy down my back—

Angel, not Angel no not dead not Angel too! I drag myself up the covers, staring across the bed frame—

That bastard lies there, pants-less and dead. Neck twisted unnaturally, all remnants of his laughter gone. I must blink several times before the truth finally sears into my unbelieving heart: my Angel isn't there.

"Angel?" I whisper anxiously. "Angel!"

Frantically I lift the bed skirt, peering under and across. I run to the other side, slipping on slick, red blood, saturated carpet squelching under my feet—

I shove the bed away from the wall. I rip the covers back, I tear my hair gone gone he is gone! Angel what did they do to you—!

Something hot splatters down my face. I start from my sleep, putting my hands hastily to my cheeks. It isn't blood. It's tears. My tears. For the second time today I find myself weeping.

August 19th

14:43 EST

TV 18 Studios

Weeping.

I rummage through my pocket, scrabbling fingers around the Tylenol. My forehead is flushed, eyes burning, room blackening. I am shaking. I have lost so much blood—so much blood!—and have only started with the antibiotics…Angel is crying, crying I can hear his soft, chirping voice, words unformed-my heart leaps, he is alive!

Hallucinating.

A hand is laid again on my arm as I pop four of the small white pills and swallow. I turn my head in surprise. It isn't Lawless.

It's Wayne.

"You sure I can't get you to see a doctor?"

A soft moaning sound. Small, tiny sobs, muffled and faint.

I try to speak, to say I appreciate his concern, I may even accept his offer…instead I face him in horror, nails digging into his hand, paling in shock-

Angel! Angel! Where are you? ANGEL—!

I hear it again. Faint, muffled sobs. So low I thought I was imagining them. "Can you hear that?" I hiss.

His concerned hazel eyes travel from my face to Fox's, his thin lips pressing together, his silence saying everything: psychological leave, temporary leave of duty…depression, stress…for God's sake, Jim, suicidal—!

Wayne and Fox believe I am having a mental break down, perhaps Lawless does as well. I am petrified by Angel's cries. And I am terrified they might be right.

Wayne's grip tightens on my arm. But that sobbing grows only louder, more insistent, like a newborn's cry…and that preterhuman, monstrous maternal instinct consumes me in a terrible rush of adrenaline and doubt.

Angel!

I jump off the step, hitting the floor in a desperate, staggering run. Angel is here I know Angel is here I can hear him, my aching, protesting body crying out sharply with every labored, bloody step—

"Hey, Hey!" Wayne has tightened his grip on my arm, he is so strong, so fucking strong he grabs me around the waist I bite, kick, scratch, shin-scrape, elbow him in the solar plexus with all my might, struggling loose and careening down the hall.

"Paltron!" Lawless shouts after me. "Paltron!"

I tear the mattress off the bed, rip the dresser from the wall. I open the closet-nothing! I run back to the hall, long shards of plaster and wood cut from the baseboards, dripping blood and bits of flesh, I find whole fingernails embedded in the doorframe—

But no Angel.

"Angel!" I shout,"Angel!"

I double back over the slick floor, wheeling left, sliding on my own blood. Doors pass open shut vents from the ceiling low moaning sounds—a janitor's closet, a staircase, a break room—the sobs are getting louder. I'm coming Angel, I'll find you, no matter what I'll find you—

Retracing my steps, swearing, cursing, praying God where is he what have you done with him—! I roll the mutilated corpses over, sprays of blood around my fingers dead faces flopping. They are heavy and pliable, soft and yielding…but Angel isn't among them.

"Angel!" I scream. "Angel!" But nothing greets me but horrible, horrible silence.

"Paltron, what the fuck!" Lawless and Gordon grab me from behind, I twist, tear, writhe. Their strong arms are under mine, lifting me, slamming me into the wall—

"Put me down—!" teeth gnashing, feet flailing Wayne joins them he is so fucking strong! "Please, please, oh God AngelAngelAngel! I can hear him I can hear him can't you hear him? Get the fuck off of me! Let me go to him—just let me go—!"

"Paltron, Paltron, look at me!" Jim orders sternly. "There's nothing there!"

I fall back on my knees, heart sinking, blood spattered, horribly spent, entirely lost, surrounded by the savagery of my sins. I rock slowly, lilting, hands to my horrified face. Angel…Angel….

That small, chirping sob. I crawl slowly, disbelieving, redeemed towards the open, cluttered closet…it comes again, faint and desperate. I begin to dig, knocking aside shoes and piles of clothes, hundreds upon hundreds of unlabeled DVD's…my hand finds something sticky in the darkness, warm and phlegmatic—

I shudder, shaking my hand in revulsion, wiping my fingers hurriedly on the nearest shirt, desperate to get the semen off-I stop short. I have reached the back of the closet. And still no Angel.

That tiny sob comes again. Muffled. Trapped. I run my sickened fingers over the seams of the walls, the door, the floor…I find a bulge. What feels like old, worn denim caught in the angle between the back wall and the right. The crack is so small, I cannot grasp it with my scrabbling nails. I crawl out, fingers searching for the familiar handle of the knife.

I wedge the blade in the crack, wiggling, wrestling, it grows wider and wider. "Angel!" I am screaming, sobbing. "Angel!" It cracks open I tear, claw scratch pull wrest open this heinous compartment, pneumatic seal pssssting—

A tiny, trembling foot withdraws into the yawning darkness. I am shaking with rage with release I peer in, my Angel lays curled and cramped in a tiny, sound proof cell only eighteen inches tall, his pants still twisted and shoved down over his feet, one ripped hem caught in the seal of the door. If it hadn't been for their haste and carelessness, I never would have found him.

"Paltron, Paltron, listen to me!" Jim says urgently. "Paltron, you're imagining things-"

"I heard him, Jim! I fucking heard him!" I stare desperately into his eyes his face searching praying begging for any other answer. His face is haggard, grey circles deep and dark under his drooping, dogged eyes. My lips part, face blanching.

Gordon—whatever he is, whatever he may think of me—would never lie. Not even now.

My lungs are aching I am coughing, I can't fucking breathe. My right knee buckles as they release the pressure on my arms. I tumble down the wall, collapsing to the floor. I am wretched, miserable. Footsore and heartsick.

Lawless, Wayne, and Fox exchange wondering glances. "He isn't here, Paltron," Jim says gently, sincerely, slowly kneeling beside me. "He's gone."

My heart falls again, sick and bitter. He's right: Angel is dead. And yet, yet I still feel his panting breath, his warmth, his tears…

Angel is sobbing, sobbing I slink into that horrifying space his face in my chest pull him closer kiss him harder safe in my arms they will never hurt you again no one will hurt you ever again, Angel, I promise.

Holden and Baxter lie upstairs, dead. Murdered by Angel's killer. I heave a laugh that is a sob, both black and bitter. So much for all my promises…

Wayne, Fox, and Lawless are all panting, resting hands on knees, wiping sweat across their foreheads. Gordon lays a timid, hesitant touch on my arm as Wayne grimaces and presses a hand against his aching stomach.

Then a soft, muffled sob echoes undeniably through the hallway.

August 19th

14:52 EST

TV 18 Studios

We bang open the bathroom door, Lawless whipping out his service pistol as I run to the second stall, shoving it open—

A young woman sits up, gasping in shock and surprise. I don't notice her tears her red rimmed eyes her pale and blotchy skin. I can realize only one thing: It isn't Angel.

Staggering, dazed. It is as though he has been ripped from my arms yet again. The room is spinning, spinning I am spent, tired, worn. I sit heavily on a sagging sink, soapy scum and water eating through the back of my pants, the haunting ghost of my barrenness. Vision blurry I rest my head in my hands. My knee throbs, pulsing and burning. It isn't him.

The four men squeeze towards the tiny stall, stepping over the tangle of my legs.

"Shaw!" Wayne whispers. "Jesus Christ, Shaw what happened?"

TV 18 Reporter Cameron Shaw lies sobbing on the floor, the reek of vomit rising from the open toilet.

Wayne climbs awkwardly to her, pulling her into his arms and soothing her tears.

"He, he was my fiancée and he left me for Natalie and so I said so I told him I said I wished he was dead!" She balls her fists into his Armani shirt, stretching the dark fabric.

"Hey, it's alright. Okay? You're fine. It's alright, Shaw. It's over—"

"I didn't want him to die—!" she chokes the last word, a sob and stomach acid escaping through her clenched and grinding teeth.

"Shaw, Shaw, Cameron," Wayne grips her shoulders in his huge hands. "It's over. Okay? It's all over—"

But he is wrong. It isn't over. It is far from being over…

His voice is calm and low, soothing her tears. One large, spidery hand gently rubbing her back. He helps her stand, supporting her tiny frame, looking to Gordon. "I'll take her back to the station, if that's acceptable."

Gordon nods his consent as Wayne and Fox leave the cramped restroom, the young reporter still sniffling in misery.

The door swings shut. I am trapped. Just Lawless, Gordon, and I…

August 26th

15:00 EST

TV 18 Studios

My silence can only condemn me. "Any word on the schools?" I finally whisper, raising my aching eyes to Gordon's. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"No," he states, leaning against the opposite wall, breathing deeply and slowly, eyes shut, head rolling back. "We've got bomb squads out, searching what we believe to be his primary targets. Miller's got National Guard helping with that...and evacuations. But there's still fifteen minutes left until school gets out. We're not through this until then."

I remember the ferries. Lawless and I were with the Arkham inmates. I shudder. "BB and..." I can't say Jimmy. "and your son?"

He smiles grimly. "Home. Sick. Both caught strep from a birthday party."

Lawless stares at us, head cocked to the left, one brow raised. He is shrewd. So shrewd.

I sit, shaking in pain and doubt, my guilt again before me. Water drips, drips, drips in the sink behind me, punctuating the silence. Finally, mercifully, Lawless speaks. "What now?"

Gordon finally sighs, opening his eyes again, becoming brisk and businesslike. "In light of the..." he casts a glance at Lawless, "circumstances."

Thirteen years of bitterness, regret, anger, hatred, and resentment fall deep and heavy between us. I have long since stopped being Gordon's friend...and yet I had to have been blind not to see that he was still and always mine.

"In light of the circumstances, I'm granting you a temporary leave of absence for...health reasons." He could have terminated me, suspended me...written me up for psych. But he lets me walk, unscathed...yet more of his compassion I do not deserve. I feel guilty, horribly guilty, for accepting his mercy now when it should be judgment instead. But there will be time enough for that. When the Joker is dead, when Angel is avenged...I will turn myself in. I promise, Jim. I promise.

"Thank you," the words slip from my lips, twin tears leaking down my face. I slip further down the sink, burning face laid against the cool plastic of the paper towel dispenser. My eyes are shut. I am blind. Only sound can decipher what happens next. A ringing phone, a curse, the door bangs open and shut. I blink. Gordon is gone. In his place is a small boy with dark, lachrymose eyes, wet curls bleeding fat drops of water down his smooth, silken skin, so pale and eerie against the blackness of the oversized T-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, his tiny feet bare, a slow puddle of water pooling around them, between his toes…

I blink again. The boy is gone. Lawless stands in front of me, surveying me cautiously. Fleetingly I wish he would take me in his arms and let me cry against him as weak and as wretched as Shaw.

But he does not.

He needs no answers. No explanations. He trusts Gordon. Trusts me-trusts me to be as strong and independent as I have always been. It is better this way. Lawless is strength, Gordon is honor. Yet there are times—desperate times—when even these best of virtues can seem both callous and cruel.


	12. Chapter 12

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

Tuesday, August 20th

23:46 EST

(Former Lt.) Governor Stephanie Miller's Inauguration Address

Citizens of Gotham, of our great state, and of our great nation:

Great? Yes, perhaps. Great as many have been Great before. Alexander, stretching his hand like his shadow across all of Asia, both merciless and cruel. Great like Xerxes, the threat of his empire overshadowing Greece. Yet I am mortality. Thermopylae. I am Leonidas. It is I who say to the raging seas of men that hitherto you shall come, but no further. O great nation, great people-can you not learn from your many mistakes? Can you not rather be good? Yes, truly you are both forgetful and arrogant as you are great.

It is with both regret and sorrow that I accept the office of Governor. In light of this unprecedented crisis and the devastating loss of public service personnel in the Legacy Bombing, I have placed Gotham City under the jurisdiction of the National Guard…. indefinitely. To her citizens, I ask that you cooperate fully with emergency personnel and other measures taken to ensure your safety. To the federal government, I ask that you send whatever disaster relief you can, whatever aid you can…and that you take whatever measures necessary to bring those responsible to justice.

Justice. Retribution. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Innocents lie dead all across the globe, the bi-product of irrepressible, unfeeling consumerism. Your unborn infants murdered. Children enslaved. Trafficked. Sold. Whole peoples slaughtered as you stand idly by, the consumers of sweat shops, workhouses, every form of cruelty and slavery… If you ask whatever measures necessary to bring justice…know then She has already been served.

To my fellow citizens, I can ask only for your prayers.

Prayers? To whom? Your industry and markets and stocks that drive you to your bloodlust? Yes, infidels, insolents, insatiates, pray. Perhaps your gods will hear you.

But it is also with hope that I take this oath and this office. And in this time, this most dark and desperate of times, I must remind you again of our struggle over the last year to bring peace and justice to the city of Gotham. Harvey Dent promised us the dawn would come. Governor Richards promised us she was here. She is now our responsibility, our duty. The lot has fallen to us to defend and uphold her.

As is ours. Great and good are seldom the same cause. You are the eagle of authoritarianism. We, the yen and yang. A separation of powers. A system…of checks and balances.

So I must ask you all to remain strong though it seems like the shadow of night is looming yet again. As your governor, I promise you this: We will rescue. We will rebuild. We will restore. And we will not relent.

Nor we. Fledgling nation with so much potential, we will refine you, purify you, make you a light and a beacon, a hope for men…

We cannot afford to think ourselves alone in this struggle. The forces of tyranny, of terror, and of anarchy have long sought to over thrown safety, civility, and community.

Tyranny? Terror? Anarchy? These the free peoples choose for themselves. Democracy is not a right, but a privilege, to those to whom it may be entrusted. The aroma of your corruption and your scandal, your bribery and your deceit rises heavy above you.

Every generation has had its testing point. Litsutania. Pearl Harbor. September 11th. We are not alone-and history will look to this moment and judge us. What will they see? Cowardice? Or Courage?

Know then your generation is chosen.

Let them find courage.

And peace-let this be the war to end all wars: a Pax Americana.

We cannot afford to despair. Darker and more difficult times lie both before…and ahead. The greater the darkness, the blacker the night, the more bitter the struggle…the more glorious the morning and more sweet the victory. Let me remind you of the words of a man who dared to hope, who dared to dream of peace and prosperity. Not Governor Richards, nor Harvey Dent, but another living in a time much darker and even more desperate than our own. These were great men-men who saw their nations and their people through years of sorrow and war and grief…. Great men, for great times. They faced a holocaust more deadly than our own that plagued not a city, nor a nation, but a world. And yet theirs was remembered not as the darkest, but as the greatest generation:

These are not dark days: these are great days - the greatest days our country has ever lived.

A great moment. A turning point. Expedient that one must die to save the nation. Gotham, the die is cast. Your lot is chosen. These will be dark days indeed. But your suffering may yet save your sisters…

Those were the words of Prime Minister Winston Churchill, as the shadow the Second World War loomed over England. So let us, like he, have the audacity to hope. May our generation too, rise to this greatest of occasions….

Or you will fall. For our discipline will turn harshly to judgment and the wrath of our fury will fall on your cities until your ruin lies heavily upon you and the vengeance of the peoples the mobs the starving enslaved and sick is both utter and complete. Yes, rise. Rise now, great nation, great people….

And may we not be found wanting.

…else they will lament you, crying Fallen, fallen is Babylon the Great! Rise now. Or never rise again.

The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming

—Harvey Dent, Gotham City District Attorney.

Twenty-four hours previously…

24:06 EST

Sisters of Mercy Memorial Garden

Whispers. Sobs. Hymns. Prayers. The sounds flickered like the dying votives strewn around the crumbling angel. They said many of the dead were children. Students. Teachers. Firemen and City Cops.

Her brother.

Maggie Kyle wept aloud, all traces of dignity and solemnity forgotten. Face in her hands she fell on her knees, ripping the wimple from her short-cropped hair. The jagged, abandoned ruins of the Sisters of Mercy Foster Home rose eerily in the moonlight, shrouds of smoke rising above them once again.

No, not her brother! God please, no! Was once not enough-!

Sister Teresa Margaret took a deep, shaking breath, running her hands through her hair, wiping the salty tears away. She sat, lips pressed, head hung heavily in a pregnant silence. Abruptly she stood,, trembling, forcing her way back through the mourning crowd, walking firmly through the Convent's heavy doors. There were the sick and injured-the living-to be tended to:

Let the dead bury their dead. You, follow me.

She reached out a trembling hand for the next victim, seating her, with a cool rag beginning to clean her many wounds. The sister's fingers nimbly threaded a needle, knotting the cord, and pinched together the torn flesh.

A soothing voice, a jerking limb. The sister began to sew.

24:13 EST

Ground Zero, Gotham City

Helicopters thrummed, stadium lights humming, sirens shrieking smoke hissing. For blocks upon blocks the rubble lay in deadly mountains of concrete and glass.

Commissioner James Gordon staggered slowly back to the Tracking Room, Lawless by his side, one hand gripped firmly around his arm. The Detective was taking no chances, steering the smaller man firmly through the wreckage to the waiting squad car, the other arm raised, gun at the ready. They had lost Finch. Loeb. Surillo. Richards and Dent…

…Paltron and Connolly…

Tears pricked his eyes. They had lost so fucking many—! But no more. No more corrupt cops betraying their trust. The Detective would remain fiercely by his side for the next fourteen hours.

Lawless opened the Tracking Room door with a strong hand, hauling Gordon up the three short steps. He seated Gordon, forcing a Styrofoam cup of water into his trembling hands. "Drink this," the Detective ordered, two fingers on the Commissioner's wrist, timing his heart beats and his breathing.

Both were elevated, his muscles tensed. Lawless methodically asked him his name, age, address and phone number. Jim's voice was weak and shaky, but unslurred. Finally content, the Detective ran his hands through his dusty, sweaty hair, laying his head back with a slow sigh.

"He okay?" Milton asked cautiously, eyes rimmed with red.

"Fine," Lawless grunted. "It seems to be more of a nervous breakdown, not a stroke."

Fred Milton shuddered at the thought. If there was one surely, one security in this mess, it was that Commissioner Gordon would be there to get them through…

But Aaron Lawless held no such illusions.

24:32 EST

1408 Maravilla Court

"Hijo de puta! What was that, 'mano? What the fuck was that!" Jesus Alejandro Guerrero spat into the phone. "What the fuck was that!"

"You have to believe me, man. No sé! Solamente teniamos planes para el gubernator-!"

Two o'clock. The rockets had gone off, the governor was dead…things had all gone according to plan…

Jesus hung up the phone, throwing it across the room. He was the jefe. El macho. El Hombre. He was la Voz. He made the plans…Goddamnit he was supposed to be in control! Meroni had warned him about dealing with the Joker. Said he was too unpredictable. He couldn't be trusted. He had no fucking allegiances…

"There's only one reason you would come to me, Mr. Guerrero. You have a new Friend. A powerful Friend. And with this Friend, you believe you can create a monopoly."

That bastardo arrogante. Self-righteous pig. The Mafioso was too afraid-didn't have the cojones to make a deal with the Joker. Too bad for him. Los Reyes had always gotten rich from what the mob was too weak-stomached to do…

Two o'clock. It had seemed too good to be true. The Latin Kings were rising to power, picking up the reigns where the Meroni family had left off…And then the Legacy fell. The building fucking fell. Thirty-five thousand people in Goddamn Gotham Plaza.

But who the Hell could have known? Was he responsible for those deaths? And what the fuck was he supposed to do now?

24:33

He had promised to free the Bastard. And he had run out of time. As far as he was concerned, let the god-fucking killer rot in that shit hole. For now, the clown was in Arkham, probably having the biggest fucking laugh of his life at Jesus' expense. You naïve, ambitious little fuck, Jesus snarled to himself, warding off the evil eye. Mama warned you! You think you could outsmart el Diablo?

…a Schemer, the Joker would have called him.

The clown was still safely in Arkham. For now. But it would only be a matter of time. And if you didn't uphold your end of a bargain with the Devil, he would track you down.

Mierda, Jesus breathed. He was either guilty…or dead.

He crossed himself, then reassembled the cell phone's battery and case. It was a little cracked, but still intact. Hands shaking with both fury and fear, he dialed the Bitch's number.

24:35 EST

Arkham Asylum

Dr. Harleen Quinzel didn't bother to look at the number on her phone. "You're late."

Guerrero's voice came agitatedly through the speakers. "We've experienced some unforeseeable delays—"

But the psychiatrist just shook her blonde head, staring out the open bay windows to the rising clouds of smoke in the distance. "Interesting. You should have planned for minor complications."

Excuses. Curses. Pleadings.

"You're still fucking late," she shut the phone without another word.

24:41 EST

Chateau D'If, Penthouse Suite

Salazar Meroni blew another ring of Cuban cigar smoke as the cell phone vibrated on his desktop yet again. A cruel smile played upon his lips as he checked his watch. Repentant little Jesus Guerrero, calling to beg clemency and protection. Of course he would offer it, extend his hand to the fledgling crime lord, welcome him graciously into his fold…

He took great delight in contemplating the loyalty of one of Gotham's leading gangs…and one of his chief competitors. The thought filled him with pride and power: the Latin Kings, puppets in the palm of his hand…

The little fuck had learned his lesson. Soon, very soon, he would need protection. But for now…Meroni would let him stew in the reek of his fear and guilt. Thirty-five thousand people was a steep price to pay, even for this.

"Jesus Guerrero. What a pleasure…and a surprise. This is most...unexpected."

The ambitious little fuck had strolled into his restaurant like he owned the world, three of his ill-dressed henchmen in tow. They were tattooed, pierced, wearing leather and chains. Punks. Amateurs. Children. They lacked the class and intelligence of Gotham's refined criminal elite…and they were either too stupid or arrogant to know it.

A black briefcase was placed on the table, unlocked with five sharp clicks.

"Ah. A business transaction," the Mafioso laid down his cigar. "And here I thought you were here for pleasure."

"I need a favor, hombre," the Puerto Rican punk leaned back casually against the leather of the booth. "A big one."

"Indeed. And one so desperate that you would be willing to come to me," Meroni said dryly.

"Cause you can deliver, 'mano. I've been askin' around," that insolent pup flashed him a gold-glinted grin.

Meroni stirred his wine lazily. "Mr. Guerrero, I am no fool. I do not play games. I do not fuck around. I am not fooled by your…false subservience or lack thereof. We are rivals, are we not?" he asked disinterestedly. "There's only one reason you would come to me, Mr. Guerrero. You have a new Friend. A powerful Friend. And with this Friend, you believe you can create a monopoly."

"Ah. I see he is…how do you say? A mutual Friend?"

"An acquaintance," Meroni replied, leaning forward across the table. "And one better left alone."

The small punk leered at him. "You ain't my mama. So don't tell me what to do, yeah? You have the balls to make a hundred grand today or not, hombre?"

Meroni cocked his head, a knowing smile twitching on his lips. So arrogant…so blind. "It depends."

"Yeah?"

"On the favor. What you request may be considerably more costly than a mere hundred thousand."

Jesus chuckled. "Think of it as…how do you say? A down payment."

Meroni nodded gracelessly, tipping his head back and taking another swallow of wine. He counted the bills disinterestedly, then shut and locked the case with the proffered key.

"You can keep this…confidential?"

"Again, in principle. We may have to negotiate the price."

Jesus grinned, shaking his head. "I need to get…here." The diminutive man laid a map on the table, showing Gotham City Plaza. One large, ringed finger tapped impatiently on the Fountainhead, an upscale conference center across the plaza from the Wayne Legacy Foundation.

He rolled the map up quickly, but could not hide the long, white line running down the newly re-christened Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway. That line could only mean one thing:

A parade.

And a parade could only mean one thing: an assassination attempt. And Stop the Violence was just weeks away…

Meroni chuckled at the irony. "Impossible."

"You said—"

"Physically, no. But financially? Impossible. At least…impossible for one hundred grand."

Jesus laughed humorlessly. "You extorting bastard! How much?"

"Two million."

"Hijo de puta," Jesus stood. "You're fucking kidding me—!"

Under the table, one of his henchmen had begun to finger a long, white knife.

"Might I remind you I need not kill you," the Mafioso stated coolly, taking another sip of wine. "I merely need inform the police that someone is…very interested in the death of a public figure and you're whisked off to County, Mr. Guerrero. Possibly even to the FBI. The Patriot Act…is still in effect."

"Fuck. That's what you do. Go fuck your madre."

Salazar chuckled humorlessly. "Mr. Guerrero, you are within weeks of proximity to the target date…and have little time to develop other contingencies. Supply and demand, really. What you ask, I alone can offer you. Secondly, I have a source, a well-placed, highly productive source whose information at best can be used sparingly, if not at all. I value this source, especially after the prosecutions and purgings last year through the District Attorney's Office…and it's information is invaluable to me. I will not risk this source for paltry pennies, Mr. Guerrero. That is the business side of this transaction. Clearly, you've much to learn about these matters…

And then there's the matter that you're an arrogant, uppity shit. That alone will cost you. Three million. That's my lowest offer."

Guerrero bit his fingernail and spat it on the floor. "Three million? Three million dollars…that is one hell of a source, hey? Your wife sleeping' with the Commissioner, yeah?"

"The price can steepen," Meroni stated coolly. "At any time."

"Done," Jesus said.

Meroni chuckled. "Three million. Half is to be wired to an offshore account this evening…the other half, upon completion. I feel you will not find me unreasonable in that regard."

"And if you can't deliver?"

"I will," Meroni said confidently. "But if not, you keep the second half."

"That…" Guerrero cracked his neck, that impish, arrogant smile never leaving his lips, "seems to be in order."

"Good. I will contact you with the routing numbers and account this evening. I will call at six thirty tonight. Be ready."

Their hands met, eyes locked. The Latino squeezed tightly, rising, trying to regain the feeling of control. Meroni needed no such childish gestures. The little shit was in league with the Joker. In a few weeks time, he would come crawling back here, begging for forgiveness…and protection.

You won't be so cocky then, will you, you insolent shit? Meroni mused. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Guerrero."

"Yeah. Buenas días," that self-satisfied smirk never left that olive face.

"Ciao," Meroni returned coolly. "Oh, and Mr. Guerrero?" the Latino punk turned in the doorframe. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

That ringed middle finger made a gesture behind the Reyes Latinos leader's slickened black curls. Maroni smiled knowingly and ordered another wine.

Salazar Meroni let out another ringed puff of smoke, basking in the musky flavor of the cigar. It was heady and strong…perfect and ripe. The phone rung again, yet he continued to sit, head back, breathing in the sweet, intoxicating smoke.

As the last tone died, he opened his eyes. Outside the thick, bulletproof glass windows, barely visible through a grey-brown patina of concrete dust, the smoke, lights and sirens rising from the Legacy tore through the empty city skyline. Meroni crushed the cigar into the ashtray, extinguishing the flame.

Black ashes spilled over the porcelain lip, scattering across his desk.

There were powers in Gotham that even the vilest and cruelest of men would never wake from their slumber. But ambition, Maeoni contemplated darkly, was so blinding…

That impotent pup had much to learn.

01:08 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

The door swung open, and a shriek echoed through the Tracking Room.

"Fuck man, what's your problem!" Milton shouted.

Anna Ramirez stood, white in shock, horrified eyes staring at the revolver not inches from her forehead.

Heartbeats. Silence. It seemed to last an eternity….

With a slow sigh Lawless lowered the gun. "You can't be too paranoid," he growled. "Sorry, Anna."

"Jesus Christ, man," Milton whispered, helping the shell-shocked Latina up the stairs. He sat her down next to Jim, shaking and sobbing, eyes still bulging in horror and disbelief. As if the Legacy wasn't enough…. Milton muttered, returning to his post in front of the monitors. They had set up several aerial cams, and the radio was still full of chatter-

He turned to Ramirez. "You alright?" But she only began sobbing in earnest.

Milton cringed, casting a furtive glance to Lawless. The Detective had resumed his post at the door, ready to challenge any who entered. He spared the weeping woman one last look, then returned to his task. He wasn't…overtly sexist-deep down inside Fred Milton tried to be politically correct. He knew women could be strong… Hell, Paltron had kicked his ass on numerous occasions…

But something down in his gut told him—all badassery notwithstanding-that this fucking war zone was no place for a woman.

01:26 EST

Gotham United Methodist

Eyes dull, hair lank, the adrenaline let down was worse than any caffeine withdrawal, any hangover. Surgical Nurse Amy Lawless vomited again in the porcelain sink, gloved hands still bloody from a LLE amputation…

Drearily she wiped her aching eyes with the back of her hand, then her mouth. "Shit!" she hissed as the rubbery taste of the glove registered in her mind. She ripped the gloves off, heaping soap onto her bare hands and dousing her face, her eyes, her open mouth with the sizzling foam-

Hepatitis. Syphilis. HIV…She shuddered, scrubbing harder, pumping the dispenser in frustration and fear. Finally, finally she ripped a sheet of brown paper towel from the wall, blotting her face, her hands, her hair. Face dripping, eyes raw and aching, the alkaline taste of soap coating her tongue, Amy Lawless raised her eyes again to the mirror—

Chavez was standing behind her.

01:34 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Sound. Light. Consciousness. Jim Gordon blinked heavily, mind coming slowly out of a hazy fog. Lawless stood near the doorway, tense and uptight, weapon drawn. His hazel eyes shifted nervously towards him.

"You alright, Jim?"

He nodded shakily. "I, I think so."

"Good," the Detective nodded, tossing the Commissioner his cell phone. "Call Barb, okay?"

A sharp, sudden pang struck him as Barb's voice came tinny and mechanical through the speakers. Amy. Ian. Fuck. In his determination to do his job he had neglected his own family. He was a cop. Amy was a nurse. Both were in short supply. Hell, he hadn't called because he knew there wouldn't be time, probably couldn't have gotten a hold of her anyways…

But Ian. Ian was probably still at daycare. Shit. Alone and abandoned during a time when even the adults didn't have a clue what the fuck was going on…What do you tell a little kid? A man's first duty was to his wife and kids….to be there, to protect them. Hell, he had spent the last four months teaching the Kid—

"I was at Sisters of Mercy, Mr. Lawless," his partner said sadly. "I was practically raised in a Convent. The only men in my life were the ones who hurt me."

He slammed his fist into the doorframe, the Kid jumping back in skittish silence. "Godammnit, Kid! Those motherfuckers who hurt you were never men! What they did to you wasn't about sex, it was about power. And anyone, anyone who picks on someone weaker just to feel like a man—!" Those shaking shoulders gripped tightly in his palms, doe's eyes wet with the shock of tears. "Call me antiquated, but the very definition of a man is a protector. So I don't care what the fuck they did to you. What they did to you changes nothing about you—doesn't make you any less of a man. Because you took an oath to serve and protect. And that makes you a man, Kid. It makes you a thousand times more a man than those bastards ever were."

Wearily he looked out the inch thick, bullet proof glass. Away in the distance, a bright light burned on Gotham's horizon, cut by the shadows of rising skyscrapers. Smoke and ash rose in the air, hazy with wavering shafts of light and billowing clouds of dust. His family was out there somewhere in Gotham, beyond his reach, beyond his help, beyond his protection.

Amy was safe. He prayed Ian was safe. Beyond that, Detective couldn't bring himself to hope.

01:35 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"You okay?" Chavez asked, one hand light on her arm. Amy Lawless pulled away, shrinking further into the locker room. "I'm fine."

There was concern in his dark eyes. "You sure?"

Amy Lawless faced him stonily. "Yes, Mark," he touched her arm again, looking hesitantly into her eyes. "You seem upset."

"Upset?" she shouted. "Upset? The largest recorded terrorist attack in history just happened eleven hours ago Mark! I just watched fifty-three people-kids! die out there on the floor! My husband's a cop, my three year old son is stuck in fucking daycare and it's one AM! Of course I'm upset—!"

The surgeon looked discomfited, but concern and sincerity were written in his gentle gaze. "Do you need to talk about it?"

Amy gave a black and bitter laugh. "Not with you," she tried to step around him. His hand grabbed her wrist, holding her back.

"Ames—" His free hand reached for her dark hair. She turned her face away, blue eyes burning with anger. Cold fury ate through her, adrenaline pumping once again. She was pissed at Mark for touching her…even more at herself for having ever invited it. Damn it, chick, you promised Jimmy this was over!

"Don't call me that," she hissed. "Ever again." It was Aaron's name for her…had been Aaron's name for her—

Chavez' grip on her wrist slackened. "Look, we need to talk—

"No," the RN said forcefully. "I wrote you a note, Mark. Everything I have or will ever have to say to you was in that note. It's. Over."

Damn it. She was so weak, so alone, just needed a shoulder to cry on, strong arms to hold her. She had never asked to be independent, never asked to be brave…

"I just want to know you're okay," Mark said kindly, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened. Shook. Then sobbed, wiping tears from her streaming, aching eyes. Slowly, gently, he pulled her close, one arm around her waist, the other pressing her closer, closer over the steady beating of his heart—

Heartbeats. The RN grabbed fistfuls of his bloodstained scrubs, a tiny, screaming moan falling from her lips.

"It's alright, Ames. It's okay…" It was so comforting…but wrong. It had always been wrong. It should be Aaron, it should have always been her husband holding her—

Chavez rocked her slowly back and forth. She opened her eyes, looking at her reflection in misery and disgust. She had promised herself, promised Jimmy that this wouldn't happen again. That it was over. She told herself was just her damn emotions, this damn stress, this damn pregnancy…But it had been her damn emotions and Mark's damn concern that had gotten her in this mess in the first place.

God, Aaron. Where are you?

01:34 EST

Gotham City Airport Terminal 13B

Gotham's skyline rose in the distance, blurred with smog…and dust. Smoke still rose eerily behind a backdrop of jagged skyscrapers, the blinding emergency lights casting an eerie glow over the horizon, like a dark and deadly dawn.

Officer Crispus Allen stood waiting for his luggage, feet planted parallel to the enormous, floor to ceiling windows that usually offered tourists a tantalizing view of the sleepless city. He felt a crack in his trembling left palm.

He didn't need to look to know the bridge of his mirrored sunglasses had snapped in two. He let the twin pieces fall, not hearing them tinker over the marble floor. He couldn't. There was a much louder, more urgent cry going up over Gotham in billowing clouds of ash and debris.

A city never sleeps. But it sure as hell could scream.

1:45 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Gordon hung up the phone, laying it down on his leg with a shaky hand. His family was safe…But not his city. He cast a begrudging look at his watch: he had been awake for more than twenty hours.

Anna Ramirez was still weeping. She shouldn't be here. She should be home. Home with her three small children and dying mother…

But there was no one else. None left to take her place. Jim Gordon felt a stab of pity run through his already breaking heart. He understood her pain. What he wouldn't give to be home right now, holding Jimmy and BB and Barbara…

He squeezed her shoulder gently, hoping she would understand. But her sobbing only grew worse.

Fully a third of Gotham's public service workers were now missing, injured, or dead. The National Guard had arrived…but they would need help, liaisons, inside information…and Jim Gordon knew this city, knew it better than anyone…except perhaps The Batman.

Whoever, and wherever he was. This was Gotham's darkest hour…she needed her heroes. All of them.

Even her Dark Knight.

01:48 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Fool. You blinded, arrogant Fool. To think one man could make a difference—!

But one man had made a difference—and how great, and terrible. Bruce raised his tear stained eyes, blinking owlishly in the blinding lights, his hollow-eyed reflection doing the same. Ozymandias. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!

Yet even that King's realm had come to an end.

With an inhuman cry he stood, punching a fist through the plate glass window, crystal shards exploding in a fiery crash of scintillating blue and red, a dark curtain torn, fallen, rent. Heads turned, eyes stared. Chest heaving, fist bleeding, Bruce Wayne collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping in both pain and rage.

He would be—could be—two men no longer.

01:48 EST

Gotham City Airport

Fuck it. Fuck all of it. He wasn't standing to wait for a taxi any longer. The whole city was practically on lock down.

There. A Chevy Impala, the middle-aged driver just climbing in—

"GCPD!" Crispus Allen jogged over, flashing his badge. "I'm sorry ma'am. But I'm gonna need your vehicle."

01:50 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"Coffee?" Milton asked, seeing the Boss rise.

Gordon nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Thank fucking God this place keeps us well stocked," the officer mumbled, pulling the tab as the steaming liquid filled a styrofoam cup. "You too, Lawless?"

"Hell yeah," the Detective grunted, still keeping watch over the door. Every person entering would receive the same treatment as Anna.

"How'd you like it?"

"Intravenously," Lawless growled.

Jim grimaced humorlessly. It seemed like an age since this morning's conversations…had it only been less than twenty four hours? "What's our status?"

"Face down. With our pants around our ankles. But it's a start. We've got Red Cross tracking down people who took refuge in the subways before the Legacy went down. That's the chief concern…collapse, or, or running out of oxygen—" Milton looked quickly back to the monitors, trying to conceal his grief. The memory of station 213 wasn't yet hours old.

"Tracking? How?" Lawless asked sharply.

"Shit," the techie stated. "I fucking forgot. We've got this electromagnetic field detector-finds heart beats-and from guess who? Bruce fucking Wayne. WE donated an Ops Center as well, it's down in the plaza—"

There was an awkward, pregnant pause in which all three waited for a woman's voice to interrupt with a low whistle and Freakin' A.

None expected to hear that voice again.

01:59 EST

Gotham City Plaza

The nightmares the hands the groping painpainsearing painfrightgetoffgetoffpleasegetoffmeGodpleasecan't breathecan't breathe—!

This wasn't the first time he had lain alone, trapped in the dark, God knows what sort of horrors lurking in the blackness- coming closer and closer—!

But that faint, gentle pulse still beat in that smooth hand, every stroke an aching sob.

"Wake up," tears bathed the limp palm cradled desperately in his."Please wake up—!"

Prayers. Pleadings. Tears. No response. Gwen Paltron would remain unconscious for another twelve unending hours.

02:01 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Milton cleared his throat in the heavy silence, and began anew. "Bradley's working on getting that set up-something about…quadrangulating?…I'm just waiting on his signal."

02:10 EST

Above Gotham City

The Fountainhead, Gotham City Plaza

"Renee, you in position?" Officer Eugene Bradley's familiar voice interrupted her nervous perusal of the rooftop below. Renee Montoya was now one hundred and twenty storeys above ground, staring out a GCPD helicopter from the passengers seat to the roof below. "Just about. Now can you tell me what the fuck is going on?"

What was going on? No answers only questions there was no reason no meaning no purpose only chaos and mayhem and hell ground littered debris scattered buildings leaning garages collapsing children dead subway suffocating—

Red and blue lights flashed epileptic nightmares across every reflective window, the blinding glare of a hundred search lights like the heat of a nuclear blast. Viewed from above, it was more desolate, more hopeless, more horrifying than any artist's rendition of the mouth of Hell the Latina had ever seen.

A picture said a thousand words. Reality simply screamed them.

Static came over the radio, jarring her from her despairing thoughts.

"Alright then. Your mission is to anchor that fucker to the Southeast corner, and connect it to the power grid. All these buildings got backup generators—even if the juice is off, they're still running hot. You need to set her up, confirm the power, and then get the hell back aboard that chopper!"

Beside her, the pilot was wrestling with the controls. "Not gonna lie to you. It's pretty fucking windy up here…" Again the roof was lost beneath them, soot and spray splashing the bottom of the chopper. "Let's try it again, this time from the North—"

The chopper spun, buffeted up and down, the stadium lights glaring again like a sinister, sickly sun. Renee squinted against their brightness, coughing on dust.

"How's it coming?" Bradley's mechanized voice came again through the headset.

"It's too fucking windy up here!" Renee shouted. "We're coming back around and trying a different approach angle—"

The chopper dipped steeply, both occupants swearing loudly. This time the blades nearly clipped the roof of a neighboring building.

"You good?" Bradley's voice came again, more urgent. Hers was the last antenna. They had to get this thing up and running-

"Negative!" She shouted back. "It's too fucking windy! Pilot says there's no way we can land!"

02:03 EST

Above Gotham City

The Fountainhead, Gotham City Plaza

"What the Hell do we do now?" Renee's shouting voice was muffled by the dull whirring of the chopper's blades.

Damn. Some people just had no imagination. Hell, Paltron would've been halfway across the roof right now. Bradley let out a loud, long sigh over the staticky radio.

"You jump."

02:04 EST

Above Gotham City

The Fountainhead, Gotham City Plaza

"I WHAT?!"

"Jump," Eugene Bradley repeated. "Pilot's gonnna sweep to your side of the chopper, you jump out, and land-don't forget to tuck and roll."

The Latina sucked in her breath. "You've got to be shitting me."

Dry, humorless chuckles came through her headset and she flushed. "You've only got a landing pad of sixteen hundred square feet up there—so don't miss, okay?"

Renee rolled her bloodshot eyes, staring at the gravelly surface below. She shivered. It was only about fifteen feet to fall…give or take a hundred and twenty stories or so. It was also fucking cold. The outside temperature might have still been in the sixties, but the wind whipped wickedly around them, battering the aircraft in a lilting dance over the roof.

Hijo de puta. Give her gun shots give her bomb threats put her in direct line of fire…just don't ask her to jump out of a moving aircraft. Renee Montoya shut her eyes tight, flickering lights creating scarring red bursts in her retinas. Her heart pumped loudly in her ears, the blades whirred dangerously overhead-

Station 213. Twenty-one dead. Lights blinking beeping hearts slowing, stopping—

A whispered prayer, a short scream, a loud UMPH!

Dios Mio, Renee Montoya lay flat on her back, gasping for air. The blow had knocked the wind out of her.

Swirling dust rising in suffocating rings, sweeping off the roof, blinking, blackness…fading lights. She brushed the whipping hair out of her eyes, wiping away wind-swept tears, rolling to her knees and standing shakily."I'm here!"

02:10 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

Red Cross had taken over the Cardia, sweeping along the subway routes starting from the epicenter of the plaza itself. Over twenty-four hundred people had been found, many suffering only from minor injuries and dehydration, Rebecca James announced, her low voice for once unheeded.

This audience had more pressing matters to attend.

"Of course you're familiar with triangulating—it takes three points to form a continuous geometric shape. Using two fixed points, you can locate a third by pinpointing the intersection of two straight lines tangent to these points. Even before the Crusades triangulation was being used for surveying land, massive construction projects…even warfare tactics-what weights to use on a trebuchets, what type of bow to fire into enemy ranks," Lucius Fox explained patiently to the small gathering of City Police. "What we're doing here is one step further: we've added a fourth point."

"Above." Bradley nodded. "You've taken it from 2D to 3D."

"Precisely," Fox agreed. "A triangle is a planar shape, plotting X and Y. We've extended the range to a Z scale as well-essentially forming a solid. Given the concentration of signals in such a small area, a three dimensional map will better enable us to locate exact positioning." And image the ruins. They would see the literal X-rays of Gotham City Plaza, beams, joists, buried automobiles, smoldering pockets of fire and ash…and survivors.

That much Bradley understood. What he didn't understand were the signals. Signals from what?

"Done!" Montoya's tinny voice sounded through Bradley's headset.

"We're up and running," he relayed to the elderly gentleman. "You good?"

"Let us hope," was his reply as his dark, weathered fingers slowly typed the password:

LUCIUS FOX_

Officer Eugene Bradley leaned forward, curious and expectant as a strange, throbbing hum began growing from inside the machine. For fully a minute, nothing happened. Then—

"Shit!"

Spectral, eerie white shadows began their flickering dance across the screens.

02:20 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"We are up and running!" Bradley's voice came through the headset. "Man, if you could see this shit!"

"What've you got?" Milton asked.

"Fucking sonar. Or something like that. They're being all shitty and secretive—whatever the hell this shit is, it's pretty confidential stuff. I'm talking Black Ops/first amendment rights violations here. I think they're hacking the speakers from cell phones and ipods—we've got visuals of parts of the understructure—you wouldn't believe it!"

Speakers from cell phones and ipods? Believable. The FBI had that power. Foreign governments could intercept those signals and use then as a listening device in their own countries—a well broadcasted fact to diplomats and visiting politicians. But sonar? Now that was old school…

But old school or not, that sort of power belonging to a private company was fucking illegal as Hell. Wayne Enterprises was probably breaking confidentiality contracts with the federal government. Violating constitutional rights—perhaps even UN policy. The Officer felt a twinge of begrudging respect for Wayne. As worthless as the playboy might be…the son of a bitch had balls.

Milton raised his eyes. Lawless and the Commissioner were looking at him expectantly. "What do they have?"

Milton turned the comm. off. "Imaging. But the military ain't gonna like it."

02:57 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Crispus Allen barked. "I'm a city cop!" He waved his badge in the Uniform's face, spit flying from his mouth. "This is all the fucking ID you need!"

"I'm sorry sir, but—"

"Fuck you. Fuck all of this!" he shouted, slamming the door to the Impala. No vehicular traffic. They were trying to get construction equipment to the plaza, closing off all the roads…only ambulances and National Guard vehicles would pass the checkpoints.

It was three AM. And it was a good five miles to GCPD headquarters.

Hang in there, Renee. Hang in there, everyone. I'm coming…he'd just flown eight hundred miles from Metropolis to get to Gotham. He would walk the rest. It just might take me awhile.

03:37 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room

Detective Aaron Lawless narrowed his eyes. Commissioner Jim Gordon stood, musing silently, head dropped back against the wall. Anna Ramirez still stared blankly at her hands. Fred Milton sat, tight lipped, glancing nervously between them. "It's a go."

It's a go. Just like that. Tapping the cell phones of civilians. Lawless hated knowing it was within the power of his government, a rape of privacy, overstepping their bounds…and now that same power in a private corporation?

But surely this was a desperate time. Thirty-five thousand missing, dead or injured. The largest terrorist attack on US soil. Surely even the Romans appointed emergency, executive powers in times of war and extremity?

…Yeah, and anyone who'd watched Star Wars could tell you the outcome of that.

But this wasn't war. It was lives. Hundreds perhaps thousands of lives hung in the balance. Oxygen. Dehydration. Raging fires. Survivors of the Legacy had little time. Desperate times called for desperate measures, for acts of faith, gut instinct…the Detective would never know how closely his reasoning resembled that of another man, a District Attorney, barely a year ago. Knowing this, knowing the truth…perhaps he would have thought otherwise.

Jim Gordon remained motionless, stricken, the same thoughts plaguing his mind, weighing his soul. The Batman's words, dusty and long since forgotten swam tauntingly to the surface: Dent? Can he be trusted?

TerrorfailureagonyJimmyBarbaraBB! No, no, please, please me instead, punish me instead!

A deep, growling voice jarred him from his thoughts. "You have to ask yourself, Jim, do the ends justify the means."

Commissioner James Gordon opened his eyes, and the burning hazel eyes of Detective Aaron Lawless were mere inches from his own.

Thirty-five thousand people. Real, tangible people. People with mothers. Fathers. Children. People like Barbara, like Jimmy, like BB…people like Paltron.

"Get your head out of your ass, Gordon! Someday you're going to wake up and realize the world isn't divided into black and white and good people and criminals…you'll come to a place where there is no right decision no one right answer and you're going to have to choose! You'll have to choose what's important to you! When the people you love are being hurt and it's in your power to save them—"

Ramirez. Milton. Lawless. Barbara. The kids. Batman. Gotham. They looked to him. Looked to him to make things right…

"You'll save them. You'll see. And you'll do anything, fucking anything to save them…even if it costs you everything."

Can the ends ever justify the means. Thirteen goddamned years. Jim Gordon had asked himself that question many, many times. Yet even now, even looking into the face of the man he believed the Batman, the right answer still eluded him.

….perhaps Paltron had been right. Perhaps there wasn't one.

03:40 EST  
Sisters of Mercy Chapel

Moaning. Weeping. The cedar pews were littered with the injured and dying, ghostlike shadows eating across the empty stone floor, staining it a deep and deadly crimson as searchlights beamed eerily through the stained glass…

The place reeked of death.

Jesus trod slowly down the aisle to the confessional, the weight of every screaming curse, sobbing breath, whispered prayer resting both heavy and hellish on his heart. Every withered, skeletal hand, every demons claw, leering mouth, every cold marble statue of saint and angel screamed his guilt: Behold the man! The cathedral stretched on. Sweat falling thick and fast. Rows upon rows of strange, greyish shapes, coated in plaster like living statues more horrible, more accusatory than the sculpted reliefs….. Panting in pain. Gasping for air. Black-clad sisters moved like liquid shadows through the dark, removing glass, offering water…covering the dead.

A flitting shadow. Jesus turned as a dark figure fell before the floor-length windows, black against blinding white, hand raised he covered his eyes, squinting into the glare-

A wailing nun clutched a dead baby, empty eyes open in its drooping head.

He shuddered, pierced to the heart, the dead eyes holding him in place.

Time stopped. Sweat poured. The leader of the Latin Kings didn't see when three more Sisters came and comforted their comrade, didn't see Teresa Margaret gently take the infant, kiss its head or close the eyes, didn't see the small, wretched bundle placed so reverently, so lovingly, so tenderly among countless others…

Numbed. Heartsick. Guerrero knew nothing but that he stood in the iridescent specter of the Slaughter of Innocents, the tears of the stricken, emaciated glass figures mixing with his own.

03:41 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room

Eerie, white specters danced across the screens as hundreds of superimposed red dots began to blink as one. Every dot a human heart. Every blink another pulse. Every second of silence a second wasted-

"….you'll come to a place where there is no right decision no one right answer and you're going to have to choose! You'll have to choose what's important to you!"

Intangible, unalienable rights…or real, living human beings. There was no moral struggle for Officer Fred Milton. He was here to serve and protect the citizens of Gotham…and you'd have to be pretty fucking stupid not to realize that what you were supposed to serve and protect was lives. Human lives. Come on, Jim. Use the fucker.

Detective Anna Ramirez raised her bloodshot eyes, the guilt of every death raw in her aching heart. For the first time since that morning she could imagine salvation: every light on that board a hope of redemption, to prove herself, to wash her guilt: Nunca mas, nunca mas. Never again.

Aaron Lawless looked stonily on the myriads of heart beats, the fleeting, ghostlike fingers threading through the blackness of the monitors. A friend and a son lay in that wreckage. He would use it. Use it and dare any man, any parent to judge him-

Barbara's terrible screaming, vomiting choking pleading dragging to the edge, the horror of Gotham stretching for miles and miles around, sirens blazing to the ferries, eerie, skeletonal ruins in the darkness, Dent's body lying tiny and broken on the gravel below…eyes for none of this, knees giving out, screams fading heart stopping: Jimmy! Alive! His child his son was alive—!

Dent's death. The Joker's chaos. The Batman's disappearance…it was worth it. Knowing his family was safe, Barbara sleeping on the couch, BB and Jimmy safe in her arms…he would do anything to protect them. Give anything to keep them safe, to hold them again-

Jim Gordon raised his eyes, the burden of every grieving family falling heavily upon him. The parents of thousands of Gotham's children were no different, would give anything for even the smallest ray of hope…who was he to deny them?

"We have the power to save lives," the Commissioner finally whispered. "…. It would be a waste not to use it."

A slow, silent sigh shuddered through the Tracking Room.

Milton nodded.

Ramirez wiped her eyes.

Lawless remained impassive, tightening a hand on the Commissioner's shoulder. "You're doing the right thing."

The right thing. A woman murdering four men to save a young child. A District Attorney wreaking his own vengeance for his dead fiancé. An allegiance with a costumed vigilante…a year long lie, a false and empty peace….where would it end?

"Am I," Jim Gordon whispered. The words felt empty and hollow. So did he.

Lawless bit his lips, eyes drawn from his friend's face to the yawning window panes behind, stained with grey swirls of ash and dust. The ruins of the Wayne Legacy Foundation still belched smoke and brilliant, white light from three miles away. Jutting skyscrapers rose like broken, blackened teeth from this bleeding, insatiable maw.

Commissioner James Gordon stared blankly ahead. Right. Wrong. Good. Evil. What was the difference between them? Had it been ignorance or self-righteousness that had blinded him…or had he traveled so far down this path he could no longer see it's beginning? Bitter as bile, consuming as cancer, this uncertainty crept through his heart and the screaming city like a dark and deadly dawn.

03:45 EST  
Sisters of Mercy Convent

Even the sturdy oaken walls of the confessional could not drown his guilt. Outside this small sanctuary, the wails and shrieks of the wounded and dying could still be heard. And for every death, every injury, he was el culpable. The Guilty One.

A simple, twisted crucifix was fixed on the opposite panel, the painted eyes of its pathetic, emaciated figure staring knowingly into his.

Enough, Guerrero cried, enough—!

A rustling in the adjacent cell. The Priest was here. For a long, heavy moment, they sat in silence, then a smooth and sinister voice dripped through the screen: "Well, my son?"

Jesus shuddered. "F-forgive me, Father, for I have… sinned."

That silky voice rang again. "How long has it been since your last confession?"

"One week."

"Go on."

"I have done…terrible thing," Jesus could not longer feel, his mind retreating into a numbed haze of exhaustion and guilt. His lips moved soundlessly, eyes blank and unblinking, hypnotized by the icon before him. "I do not think that God can forgive me."

"Do not be so quick to underestimate his compassion. He is your Father. And did not the prodigal son disrespect his father, treat with contempt, squander his inheritance on harlotry and drunkenness? And yet when returned in humility, did this man he had so hated not embrace him warmly and weep over him?" that voice was now warm, soothing, speaking of solace and comfort, assuaging fear and withholding judgment…

It inspired confidence. Trust. That voice could never do, never be wrong—

"Yes…"

"Do not falter on the road to forgiveness. Your own Father waits eagerly for your return, waiting to embrace you again," smooth as oil, shrouded in silk, sweet scented poison. "Remember, the Shepard rejoices less over the ninety-nine than the finding of one he had lost…So tell me, my son. What is this thing you have done?"

And slowly, slowly, that dark deed began to spill from his lips and soak through that screen, black and bilious, bitter as blood.

03:48 EST  
FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel

GCPD: Red Cross One, Red Cross One, this is GCPD-

GCEMS: Red Cross One. Over.

GCPD: Request assistance on Dent and Seventeenth, north end of block, I repeat, request assistance on Dent and Seventeenth, north end of block. We have an indicated fifty survivors taking refuge in portable toileting facilities, over.

GCEMS: GCPD, sending teams to Dent and Seventeenth. Repeat: Sending teams to Dent and Seventeenth.

04:01 EST  
Intersection 17th Street and Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

"I'm stuck I can't breathe-I-I-I can't breathe—!"

Panic. Sobs. "Hang on Sara, Baby, listen to me, it's going to be okay—!"

At 14:01, August 19th, precisely one hundred bright blue portable toilets had lined the sidewalk of the Stop the Violence parade, their fumes noisome in the hot summer air. Fifty-four had been occupied. All had been swept aside, knocked over, and buried in the deluge of debris and dust, trapping their occupants—and a small, noxious atmosphere of air—inside.

Twelve hours. Oxygen long since turned to carbon dioxide. Voice lower. Quieter. Panic now. Light-headed stuck in the porta-potty dying in the porta-potty that was funny!

Itwasfunnywasn'tititwasn'tfunnylaughingcryingsobbi ngsuffocating—

Heavy tramping. Shouts. Sirens. Sixteen year old Sara McCloud kicked desperately against the hard plastic, screaming for help. "Over here! Over here! Help me please—!"

"Sara? Baby, is someone there?"

Hurried footsteps. "Hello?"

Urine. Feces. Methane. Her mother's voice forgotten."Help me! I'm, I'm stuck help ohpleasegodhelpmehelpme—!"

"Stay down, honey! Cover your head!" The fireman swung the butt of an axe into the blue plastic, brittle shards spinning across the colorless wreckage. Crack. Crack. Crunch. He kicked through the hole, widening it, the girl's scrabbling fingers breaking under the force of the blows—

"Stay back, honey, just stay back!"

"Helpohgodpleasehelpgodplease—!"

"Sara, SARA!"

Another blow. More snapping bones. The hole broke through. The phone fell. The gagging, god-awful smell rose. He vomited, reaching a hand into that terrible hole and hauled the sobbing girl up by her ruined hands, as wet and wretched as a squalling newborn. He clutched her small frame to his chest, her lanky legs flopping pathetically as he staggered through the wreckage to the waiting ambulances. "I need help! Somebody help her!" It was terribly familiar…the little girl's blackened flesh, shallow breath I don't know what to do please help her just help her she's going into shock, AED!

A paramedic rushed towards him. "Bring her here!" Stretcher. Oxygen. Four thick, black straps. The sobbing teenager wiped sewage from her contorted face, moaning wordlessly. "She'll be fine," EMS worker Jennifer Hanson assured the hovering FD. "You did your job. Let me do mine."

That slimy hand still clasped in his. "What's your name, honey?" Fireman Elliot Goldfinger asked.

"S-s-sara!"

"You'll be okay, Sara," he whispered, giving that tiny, shit-slimed hand one last squeeze. "It's all gonna be okay."

04:02 EST  
Eagle Harvest Estates

Sara. Sara! The phone was dead the phone her daughter had died!

"SARA! OH GOD, SARA!" Cindy McCloud was sobbing, retching, screaming, fingers ripped clothes tore hair hyperventilating choking puking keening. The forty-two year old Renaissance Art Professor collapsed to the floor as her husband fell slowly down the doorframe, head bowed in an age-long silence.

No false hope nor embrace. No meaningless words of comfort. No lies. No promises. Sara. Dead. Their only child, gone. There was nothing left to say.

04:03 EST  
Intersection 17th Street and Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

The door shuts. Lights whir. The ambulance becomes a blurred and screaming siren amongst thousands. Smoke rises. Concrete crumbles. Darkness. Dust.

Twelve hours of hell. Fifty-seven body bags. Charred limbs, smearing, blackened flesh, rotting bone. Elliot Goldfinger blinked. The ambulance was gone. But not his courage. This might be hell. Might be chaos. There might be no God, no reason, no answers…

But he had hope. He had closure.

…Her name was Sara.

04:15 EST  
The Fountainhead

Darkness. Bone-chilling cold. Freezing spray. Lung searing ash. One hundred and twenty storeys above the ground, the roof of the Fountainhead was a terrible place to be.

"Come on, just break you motherfucker!" Renee Montoya shouted again, throwing her weight against the emergency doors. No use. They were locked tight.

Her partner could have easily handled this, snapping the steel like matches…but Crispus was in Metropolis. His father's heart surgery. She would have to weather this one on her own. "Piece of shit!" One last, fierce kick. She fell down, arms crossed in frustration, back against the unyielding steel. It was fucking cold up here. No water, no rest. The Latina had been on the roof of the Fountainhead for nearly two hours. The chopper had long since vanished into the bright, blinding haze, and had never returned.

"Survivors found on Dent and Seventeenth…" Milton and Bradley were chattering away on the radio-EMS. GCPD. The fucking national guard. All the channels were occupied. Saving lives. She sighed in frustration, miserable in the cold and wet, choking on soot, feeling helpless and worthless. GCPD needed her. Gotham needed her….and here she was doing fucking nothing. Beside her, the antennae box quadrangulating the depth of GPS position of cell phone signals to one one-thousandth of a meter continued to receive.

Lives were being saved. Lo importante. Her own peronsal comfort could wait.

04:20 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"What do we have, Fox?" Bruce asked anxiously, leaning into the screens.

"It's not working as well as I would have hoped," Lucius replied quietly, face drawn and fallen."We're registering empty space. Especially at the epicenter."

"Dust. Corroding the batteries," Bruce grunted.

Lucius nodded, taking a grateful sip of coffee. "That's a possibility, Mr. Wayne."

"More like muffling the speakers," Bradley offered. "You've got plenty of equipment down there…if I'm right. You're just not registering a signal because no sound vibrations are penetrating that far. People would have been at street level. They're buried deep."

Wayne and Fox both shot him a furtive, sidelong glance.

"Come on, cell phones! They'd be buried deep! And it's the only thing it could be, really," he stated unabashedly.

Wayne shot Fox a questioning stare. The CEO nodded slowly.

"What are you suggesting?" the playboy asked.

"Simple," Officer Eugene Bradley shrugged. "Make some noise."

04:21 EST  
Thomas J. Wayne Boulevard

"Methodist, this is Trauma One!" Jennifer Hanson shouted into the comm. "We've got a female patient, age sixteen, presenting severe dehydration, shock, and CO2 toxicity! We're three minutes out!"

"Trauma One, we copy. Respiratory therapy will be standing by."

Jen dropped the phone back in its cradle, grabbing Sara's shoulders again, forcing the oxygen mask back over her gasping face. "Deep, slow breaths, honey! Take deep slow breaths!"

4:22 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Make some noise."

"How?" Wayne asked suspiciously.

"Ringtones. Get people to call. It'll activate the speakers—if that's what we're using."

No. But close. The High Frequency Pulse Emitter had been installed with the aid of the US Military. Wayne Enterprises had developed the technology and sold it on a contract basis. Bruce had proposed it as an extra measure of homeland security, anti-terrorism…

…or search and rescue.

But the experimental technology wasn't even two years old. The newest iphones, Nokias, Blackberries and Razors all contained the chip…but not everyone in Gotham could afford cutting edge technology. Damned if Bradley wasn't right-teens, young adults, children—teachers with their meager salaries—would be among the last to buy new phones…first to receive parent's hand-me-down's…

"But would it work," Fox mused aloud.

"It should." Bruce nodded. "It should." Smaller in amplitude, weaker in resonance, the sound waves in the human hearing range could be detected faintly by the EMF receivers…if activated.

"Announce it on the news," Bradley continued. It made sense: have loved ones calling the phones of the dead. Rational. Perhaps cruel. But the vibrations produced would map the plaza….lives could be saved…

The elderly gentleman ran a hand through his grizzled hair, looking suddenly hesitant.

But therein lies the rub, Bradley observed humorlessly. They needed more imaging. But to get it…they must chance exposure. And exposure could mean confiscation. Perhaps imprisonment.

Either way, the technology would be doing no one any good. Under a million tons of steel, glass, concrete and asbestos, victims of the Legacy were running out of air…

…and time.

04:30 EST  
Arkham Asylum  
Patient Care Ward

Come out, come out wherever you are! This was better than breaking out. Better than simply blowing something up, taking Harvey and his bunny hostage…Hell, he had even forgotten to be pissed at that stupid Spic…

No-oh, no. He hadn't forgotten. Merely postponed.

But for now, he was pre-occupied with something else: something better. This was one show even the Batman would never miss. The Big Bad Bat would be back now. No more pouting and refusing to play-

That red-headed bitch, still spewing pointless facts like a stuck record: twenty-four hundred saved in subways…patients being sent for treatment at Arkham, Sisters of Mercy, United Methodist…Firefighters find survivors along Dent and Seventeenth—

He changed the channel: CNN. National terrorist threat level raised to red…all flights grounded, no one has yet claimed responsibility for the attacks…

Blahblahblah. Bo-riiing. The Joker yawned lazily, flipping back to Channel 18. He still didn't know whether to be impressed or insulted that they had ruined his show. It had been his big day…but with a routine this good, he really couldn't resent them… But he could…take down some, uh, pointers.

C'mon. Tell us what we wanna know. Who did it, hmmm? Who did it-tuh?

…And why?

04:35 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

There was silence on the Comm. Silence in the room. No one moved.

"You want us to what?" Milton asked in disbelief.

"Go public." Bruce Wayne's tired tones rang. "We've located nearly two thousand people. Fox and Eugene are convinced there's more."

Gordon clenched his eyes tightly, the haunting image of the Legacy's empty scar shining bright over the horizon still imprinted on his retinas. He blinked. Gotham needed him now. Needed him as she had needed the Batman a year ago,,. Like that boy had needed Paltron—

Hopelessness now. No where else to turn. Their last, their greatest defender…was worse than dead. He was ruined, true face showing at last. "The Joker won. Harvey's prosecution, everything he fought for, undone. Every chance you gave u sfor fixing this city dies with his reputation. We bet it all on him. The Joker took the best of us and tore him down. The people will lose hope—"

"No. They won't. They must never know what he did… I can do those things because I am not a hero. Not like Dent. I killed those people. That's what I can be. I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be. Call it in."

And he did. With trembling fingers, with choking respect, he did. Called it in. Lied. Because sometimes the truth isn't good enough. Sometimes people deserve more, sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded…

He had seen it before. Taking the fall, shouldering the blame. Surillo banging the gavel, the jury reading their verdict, the charges announced, and one by one she was declared guilty, her sentence read-

Yet she had eyes only for him. Cold, compassionless steely eyes. The eyes of a killer, a molester…a queen. No tears falling, chin held high. Not broken. Not remorseful. Triumphant.

…But innocent. Christ, Paltron, he had whispered, wouldn't it have been easier just to tell us?

Thirteen goddamned years. He finally understood…and the realization tasted bitter in his mouth. This is what it felt like to dread, to know you would be misunderstood, misinterpreted, misjudged. To lose everything…

Yet to do it anyways: A Killer Angel…

…A Dark Knight.

And that's when he felt it. That ominous, inescapable weight. In his heart, Commissioner James Gordon knew the Batman had already taken the fall once. Took Dent's sins upon himself. Exiled. Banished. Became the Villain, just like Paltron…and he could no longer be the Hero.

"The military might order us to shut it down," Fox cautioned over the comm set. "We'll do what we can until then."

Lawless nodded. "How far out are they?"

Milton was charting National Guard's progress over the radio. "They're fucking everywhere. They've got roadways blocked, they've taken over the airport—"

"I'll get the information to the press," Wayne's voice came. "James. Channel 18. Everyone in Gotham's watching."

"After that…it'll only be a matter of time until someone upstairs puts two and two together," Bradley said quickly. "Get going Wayne."

"We'll need to buy more time," Lawless growled slowly, hazel eyes boring knowingly into his own. "The second Wayne goes on air they'll start working on finding us…and shutting us down."

Buy time…like hope. It was a precious commodity. Worth any cost—however horrible.

Gordon felt his pulse surging. Time. Time. Time…

It was now or never. Gotham needed a Hero…

…and this time, the Batman was looking to him.

"No." The whispered, shaking voice of Commissioner James Gordon was barely audible. The room plunged into silence, all eyes—and ears—attentive, desperate for an answer, reassurance, for hope. He had none.

"As of this moment, Wayne Enterprises is acting on behalf of and with the authority of the Gotham City Police Department-a federally recognized branch of the United States Police Force. As such, we are an independent, autonomous law enforcement authority outside of the US military…This occurred within the limits of Gotham City. Until convincing evidence is provided to the contrary, this falls under our jurisdiction. I am Police Commissioner-and until a successor takes the oath of mayor or governor—or they are found, I am temporarily charged with their duties. Protocol dictates that until I am removed due to death, illness, perceived mental or emotional incompetence, or relieved of said duties by a federal emergency response team or elected official…this event—and it's contingencies—falls under the jurisdiction of the GCPD…and it's commander's discretion."

To serve and protect.

Milton looked away. Anna Ramirez' lips opened, another burning tear sliding smoothly down her cheek.

Lawless remained silent, head bowed.

Swallowing, he began again, quavering voice barely above a whisper. "You don't turn this off until you receive direct orders from me…or a suitable and authenticated replacement."

Silence.

Milton nodded. Anna bowed her head. Lawless' bloodshot hazel eyes closed tightly.

Gordon waited long for them to open.

04:36 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

Officer Eugene Bradley glanced to the technician next to him. "You understand what he's saying?"

Fox nodded. Bruce's sacrifice. "I believe I do."

04:40 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room

"Do not shut down—lock yourselves in if you have to. They'll come to the Tracking Room, first, obviously—but someone's bound to notice those power cables," Milton's voice droned in the background.

"For this to work they'll need written confirmation of consignment," Lawless said lowly, finally breaking his strange silence. He laid a firm hand on the Commissioner's arm."I'll take care of it."

You're doing the right thing, Jim.

No more doubt. The Commissioner attempted a grimacing smile, nodding his head in silent thanks. For twenty years he had sacrificed his time for Gotham…he only hoped to buy her more.

…But unbeknownst to him, the Batman was already doing just that.

04:42 EST  
Gotham City Plaza

Running running lungs aching glass dust blinding lights-

"James!" Bruce shouted. "Rebecca James!"

There. That familiar bright mane of curls appeared, the only color in this hell of grey, powdery dust. She looked disoriented, exhausted, spent…but goddamned determined. "Wayne?" She stood quickly, one hand on his right arm. "What are you doing here?"

The footsore billionaire leaned over, panting, hands on his knees. The distance had been no strain…but the dust was fucking murder. And Armani loafers, he decided, looking down at the shredded shoes, were never meant to be worn in a combat zone. An inch long, jagged shard of glass oozed blood from the toes of his left foot. He coughed, choking on dust and phlegm, then straightened. A helicopter flew by overhead, bright light blinding both as he shouted to be heard.

"I came to find you-!"

04:47 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Hissing smoke. Plumes of water. Another building on the southwest side of the plaza leaned, shuddering, the grating of steel and falling plate glass like a terrible ocean roar. Blazing sirens. Whirring lights. Helicopters tossed cyclones of dust for hundreds of feet, spirals of toxic asbestos and glass… Everywhere there were uniforms, tiny people in uniforms, dwarfed by the overwhelming ruins.

Ruins not fifteen hours old.

Ruins under which thousands of people remained buried…perhaps alive.

"This is an emergency broadcast for any families of Legacy victims!" Rebecca James shouted urgently. "Police request-I repeat police request assistance in search and recovery! All family and friends are encouraged to call their loved ones!"

More sheets of shattering glass. The building groaned again.

"Police believe these calls crucial in locating any survivors buried within the Plaza itself—"

Chris Holden was shouting something in her headset, unintelligible, she had to focus, to concentrate, had to get the word out—

Joists buckled. Walls groaned. The roof began to cave-

"Again, police urge continuous calling to any believed victims of the Legacy attack—"

Gibberish. Jarbled static. Dust was rising so fast, so fast!

Finally, a clear signal-

"Beck, get the fuck out of there!"

The Fountainhead

No, no, Not again not again! "Oh fuck, NO!" Renee shouted, "NO!" Leaning, groaning, the Old National Bank shuddered and slipped, millions of tons of lethal glass, steel and concrete raining in hellish hail to the ground-emergency workers!-below.

Coughing. Rising dust. Montoya tucked her head to her chest, pulling the cloth of her uniform over her face. Choking. Retching. Suffocating, Can't breathe—!

GCPD Tracking Room

"Shit!" Milton shouted as TV 18 blinked into static. "Damn, damn, damn-"

Wayne had gotten the word out…but had it been enough? And Jesus, had he just watched him die?

04:50 EST  
Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Mr. Wayne got through." Lucius Fox said suddenly. "Look."

"Lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree," Bradley said, leaning forward to take a closer look at the now bright monitors. Where before were empty stretches of black or hazy grey, came solid white lines, dancing and wavering slowly across the screens. Gotham City Plaza flickered, condensed, solidified. Sound waves were compression waves, able to move only through a medium-and in denser media, traveled faster, carried farther, and remained more distinct.

Over thirteen thousand separate signals fleshed her out from the ground up, illuminating six square blocks of rubble and dangerous debris. People had taken refuge in cars, entryways, sewers…even the fucking portapotties. But most did not reveal good news. Some figures moved, pulsed, marked by Fox with a flickering red icon-Status Urgent. Living. Others…had not been so fortunate, nothing more than heaps of crushed and twisted bone. Silicon, plastic and microchips were hardier than the fragile carbon and calcium structures that form the human machine.

"Unfortunately, human body tissues are difficult to distinguish," Fox continued, forwarding the morphing map to the Tracking Room. "Under normal circumstances, in the open air, sounds waves in the human hearing range are undetectable or far too weak—echolocation works primarily through multiple reflective surfaces—"

"But in a matrix—"

Fox nodded with what could almost be a smile. "Exactly."

05:01 EST  
1900 E. Philadelphia Dr., Apartment #3578

Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

Cameron Shaw rolled groggily off the couch, landing with a slight oof! on the living room carpet. Her purse. Her phone. She crawled tiredly over, brushing tangled hair from her eyes, plunging a hand into the Gucci bag, feeling for the vibrating phone.

Chris Holden? Damn.

05:03 EST  
GCPD Tracking Room

"Shit, Old National!" Milton shouted. "I'm showing here it leaned to the Southwest, so we're damn lucky. If it went the other way the brunt of the debris would've hit the Plaza proper—"

Lawless shuddered. All those people-

Not twelve hours ago that had been his fear: according to Gordon, a year ago the bastard had planned to be locked in the MCU. He easily could have been planning a second attack, a crippling blow against Public Service Personnel.

But Hell, they didn't even know it was him.

This whole thing reeked. Fucked up. Senseless, mass, wanton violence, careless of collateral…

It both did, and didn't, seem like that Bastard's style.

It felt, if anything, more like Fear Night…

Lawless paced in front of the dust caked windows, a tired hand over his left temple, fingers in his sweaty auburn hair. The Kid. Paltron. All those people…

Where the fuck was the Batman when you needed him?

05:11 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Old National?" Lucius asked with sudden alarm. "On the Southwest corner of the plaza?"

Bradley nodded somberly. "Yeah."

It was significant. Somehow. But he was so tired, exhausted, worn. He placed his weathered hands against his forehead, pressing his eyes, trying to think…Old National. Not twenty-hours ago he had stood in its shadow, Nichelle and Mikeala holding white helium balloons, mouths bright with cherry popsicle, sweaty and smiling in the heat…

Southwest corner, the Legacy had leaned on its Southwest corner…

….Bruce—!

05:22 EST

Gotham United Methodist

No rest for the wicked.

Seventy-eight more victims had poured in. Jennifer Hanson on the radio again, Trauma One bringing another victim. Forty year old female. Crush syndrome. Medics would be standing by—

RN Amy Lawless removed shards of glass from an open wound, fingers trembling with caffeine, nerves, lack of sleep. Her patient sat, wincing in pain, eyes dull and listless. The walls, halls, even floor were littered with more dust-covered victims staring blankly out of her. Some clutched wounds, tearing in pain. Agonal gasps. Sobs.

Others simply stared. Too numbed, too shocked, to feel. Emotionless, lidless eyes like some pale, slimy aquatic creature whose ancestors became entrapped in a cave pool, sightless, swollen eyes growing baleful and unseeing.

Skin, clothes, hair all that same, dreadful grey, a faceless, impersonal mob of the dead and dying. Bright red blood the only color in this spectrumless hell. Quiet moan. Hydrogen peroxide. Bubbling blood and froth. She fastened a bandage in place with a tegaderm.

She stretched her hand for the next victim, feeling this stream of people—like this night—would never end.

05:25 EST  
Gotham City Plaza

Darkness. Silence.

"Is anyone there!" Anyone there, anyone there, anyonethereanyere….

…Alone.

OhGodohChristpleasehelppleasehelptrappedaloneinthe darknessnolightnohopenoair-!  
A gentle stirring, a quiet moan. Aching eyes, burning throat, sudden sob. And that hand—that soft hand!—for one fleeting moment moved in his.

But only once. And only for a moment.

05:31 EST  
Wayne Mobile Ops Center

Open door squint in blinding light charge down stairs across rubble can't breath can't see keep going stumble fall get up old man, get up—!

"Where the hell you think you're going, man?" Eugene Bradley shouted, scrambling over shards of metal debris after his deranged partner. "What the hell are you doing—!"

"I have to find Mr. Wayne!" They didn't understand couldn't understand Bruce was the Batman the only hope this city had Thomas' son he had to find him couldn't let him go missing again—!

Get up old man, get up!

Lucius let out a shout of pain and collapsed again, the GCPD officer easing the fall.

"The fuck you do!" the technician shouted over the blades of an overhead chopper, hauling Fox to his feet, his left leg buckling—

"You don't understand!" Fox cried,"We have to find him, I…I have to find him!"

Blades whirring dust rising no way in hell this man was leaving he was the only one, the only one who knew how to operate that damn machine they were all going to prison but they had to save lives, goddamnit, had to save as many as possible hundreds thousands couldn't let them go just for one man—!

But Bradley wasn't a father, a husband, grandfather or godfather. Didn't—couldn't—understand what compelled his companion, this man in his sixties, to clawstrugglefighttear away, try to run on a fractured tibia go careening blind into that nightmarish hell for just one man all consequences damned against himself and others…

…but he understood his duty.

Heart dropping, mind steeling Officer Eugene Bradley steered his way back to the Ops Center, half-supporting, half-dragging his reluctant companion. The helicopter flew by again: National Guard. Who knew how many precious hours, minutes, seconds they had left? How many lives they could save?

Christ, not a medic no blood that's good just elevate here let's get some ice…

More than one, he repeated firmly to himself. More than one.

05:36 EST

Gotham City Plaza

Breathing…difficult.. Moving..can't. Can't move…getting darker, going down, down, down like riding the express elevator from the Penthouse—

And then a familiar voice, desperate and unlooked for: "What's the point of all those push ups, Master Wayne, if you can't even lift a simple log!"

Bruce Wayne came to, arms extended over his chest, elbows locked and shaking, eyes focusing in the dim light. His hands were bloodied and gritty, supporting a section of smooth, marble flooring both taller and thicker than himself.

Jesus, Alfred, the billionaire breathed. But the manservant was no where to be seen. But this wasn't Wayne Manor. Wasn't a dream. A nightmare. It was real. He was still alive, still the Batman…and Gotham City needed him now more than ever.

With a grunt he edged from under the flooring, sneezing on dust, squinting in the terrible light. He let the edge go, the marble dropping with tolling finality, another great cloud of dust. God, it could have crushed a man easily…He shuddered, rising shakily to his feet, pulling his ruined shirt-collar over his aching nose and mouth—

The Legacy. Victims. EMF, had to tell them, spread the message, he had been looking for a woman—

James. He was standing right beside her when the wave of debris hit-cold, terrible feeling in his gut he dropped to his knees, clawing frantically at the edge of the marble. "Rachel!" he shouted hoarsely. "RACHEL—!"

05:51 EST  
The Fountainhead

God.

If there was a God. Freezing spray, sooty ash, choking dust. Detective Renee Montoya raised her dark, swollen eyes through a curtain of nappy hair to the Hell vomited through the center of Gotham City, smoke rising like warm steam from a dying creature's open entrails.

So much life. So much hope…gone. Destroyed.

Eerie swills of red and blue, red and blue reflected in scintillating myriads of thousands of windows. Bright white, blinding glare of a holocaust star. Darkness. Dust. Despair.

She blinked slowly, raised her head.

Another light grew dimly on the horizon, sickly yet strong. It wavered, flickering fleetingly through a cover of inky clouds. A feeling. A hope. A whisper. A shout—!

Parched lips parted. A single tear forming, freezing on her face.

…Dawn.

Shot with pink, laced with lavender, the first fingers of cerulean began creeping over this kingdom of darkness.

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

The sun. Damn. The Sun. Adrenaline surge over nothing left but shaky limbs sweat soaked clothes covered in grey dust coughing coughing so determined to get here to make a damn difference to not stand by and do nothing wet eyes upturned, drinking in every ray a frozen statue on the marble steps of GCPD headquarters Officer Crispus Allen looked to the pale light lingering in the East, for a moment not comprehending what it was he saw.

What was it? Awe, amazement, jet lag, lack of sleep…effects of stress? Both beautiful and terrible at the same time…the closet thing he'd ever felt to believing in God—

Must be the stress, he whispered.

Gotham City Plaza

Silence. For one heart-stopping second it seemed all sirens ceased to scream, all lights stopped their humming, all radios their static—

Six hundred and eleven Paramedics, Firemen, Red Cross, Police, National Guardsmen and Normal, Everyday Citizens stood stock still, faces turned eastward, eyes uplifted, hearts—like hopes, like the infant sun—rising.

GCPD Tracking Room

Milton and Lawless on the radio, send more crews to the Plaza, too many structural instabilities, more could fall at any time the Fountainhead was leaning I was an Orthopedic Surgeon, okay just keep the leg elevated, keep ice on it—

Jim Gordon raised his tired eyes. Something on the wall. He reached a tired hand to brush it. Dirt? A stain—? But it was moving…smoke?

Yes. But moving. Its shadow billowing still over his outstretched hand—

Heart dropping feet turning mind spinning it could only mean one thing:

…the sun was rising.

The sun was rising! Jim Gordon stumbled to the windowsill, marble cold under his quavering hands. The Sun. Was. Rising. Pierced to the heart, newfound strength pulsing with the waxing light, he knew this moment, this feeling, the Gates of Hell, the Rising Sun, hope unlooked for when all hope seemed lost—

Horns. Rohirrim. Horses charging from the rising sun.

Tolkien's Eucatastophe. That awful, agonizing beauty where one could cry Death not in defeat but defiance, face one's foes with little hope of victory but hope nonetheless. For no matter how deep the darkness, how black the night, bitter the storm, above it all the sun rode still—!

…and would. It was a promise. A small one, perhaps, but a promise nonetheless: As long as the world remains, winter and summer, spring time and harvest, day and night shall not cease.

He smiled wearily, wiping tired eyes on a dusty shirtsleeve. The Sun was rising…and the Ark doors were open. Maybe to devastation, destruction, chaos and death…but not utter. Whatever the odds, despite the risks, there were victims still alive, soldiers, paramedics, volunteers still climbing through rubble to rescue them, risking their safety and very lives for the sake of strangers.

A sudden shot of pink and yellow, premature over the horizon, growing and swirling like the Aurora Borealis, brighter and brighter, a falling tear, a dazzling obelisk of white gold. Long, black shadows still lurking behind every skyscraper, western sky still dark, the infant sun's rays not strong enough to pierce the darkness, but She was rising nonetheless.

His fingers clinched around the sill, filled with new-found strength of heart. Gotham hadn't given up hope. Not yet.

Neither would he.

06:01 EST  
Gotham City Plaza

Choking dust. Tinkering glass. The Foutainhead looming ominously. EMS worker Jennifer Hanson turned slowly on the spot, overwhelmed with the beauty of the breaking dawn, with the enormity of the destruction, mountains of twisted metal, broken concrete, scintillating glass like myriads of diamonds, and the spinning lights, lights, lights—

There. Something in the distance, hazy and uncertain from Old National's death throes. A wavering shadow through a spotlight beam, growing stronger coming closer, a lone figure through the fog of dust and light.

She stared. Squinted. It was a man. Walking. A red-haired woman limp and lifeless in his arms.

The specter disappeared. The man had fallen.

Jen began to run.

06:14 EST  
Gotham United Methodist

"I suppose, Shaw, what the Citizens of Gotham—and the US, really—want to know is: who is responsible for these attacks? And who is in charge of the Crisis in Gotham City?"

CNN. Hell of a thing to have on in the break room. More visuals of the attack, its grisly aftermath, replay after replay of the sequence leading up to what must have been the initial explosion, Trisha Tanaka's famous face frozen in that confused, wondering stare-

Amy Lawless shuddered. She had no doubts the woman was dead. And Governor Richards. And anyone in that frame. All those anonymous, unknown faces. Dead. Gone.

"…Well, to be honest, we really don't know at this point," the blonde reporter returned. "We have received no word concerning Governor Richards, and Lt. Governor Stephanie Miller has yet to take the oath of office. News of Mayor Garcia's discovery was only just released to the Press—he's currently listed in critical condition at Gotham United Methodist."

The RN blanched, leaving the empty room for the abandoned hall. She didn't want to be in that room. Not with that TV program on. Not sitting on that couch. Not with the memories—and regrets—of what she'd done there.

It was late—or early. Census was low. Her shift had been called off.

She didn't bother calling home, didn't want to wake Ian. Or Aaron. They were both run down, sleep deprived…these mandatory third shifts and that goddamned Stop the Violence were splitting her marriage into pieces…

It started with that Joker bastard. Investigating all those murders. Long, unpredictable hours, constant midnight emergencies, urgent phone calls, press conferences…depression…Aaron had been gone so much. So much-

And then Gotham General. And she had been left frantically scrabbling for a job, after months of searching catching a seven to seven night shift at Methodist-

Shit. Crying again.

She wiped her eyes. Gritted her teeth. Aaron was a good man. Good husband. She would be less of a person to ask him to be anything but what he was. And she wasn't going to be like that Bitch Jess, she had promised herself from the day they met. Wasn't going to let jobs, careers, long hours-days apart, on call shifts come between them…

She turned the engine off, parked on the street. Came in quietly through the back door. The orange glow of the neighbor's garage lights filtered in through the windows. She didn't speak, didn't even put her purse down stood confused in wondering silence…

Jimmy was spending the night again. Sprawled out on the couch, already fast asleep. Her husband was bent over the couch, untying his partner's shoes in the dark. Innocent enough. He tossed the comforter over his prone form, turned to leave—

But a scrawny white arm held him back.

That's when it happened. Her entire world falling apart, so angry so anguished she forgot to breathe—

Nausea sickness how could I be so stupid why would he do this to me! Her husband, her Aaron sat on the edge of the sofa, pulled the boy into his arms, hands caressing his back, that face laid gently against his chest, cuddling closer, those slender, girlish fingers now laid tentatively against her husband's beard, a scratchy kiss left against the boy's forehead—

Her husband's arms. Her sacred place. In her own goddamned home. With her son—their son!—upstairs! Driving driving careening in out of traffic how could I be so fucking stupid? Another woman she would have been crushed upset distraught—

—but another MAN? Good God Aaron what the fuck—!

And she had let it go on. Let that miserable fag into her house, her life. Stupidstupidstupid! God how had she been so blind! Aaron's hands always on Jimmy's small shoulders, his arms, the small of his back, ruffling those silky curls—

How many other men had he been with? Had he used protection? AIDS. Hepatitis. Her Aaron! Her husband. Ohshitohshitofuckfuckfuck!

She parked the car. Back at work. Sobbing into the steering column. Nauseating images Jimmy face down Aaron on top of him Christ who knew they were doing it in her house right now—

She threw up. Chunks of vomit pouring down the dash, her lap, sticky in her hair. A sudden knocking. She jumped, startled, looking upwards through hot tears and messy locks:

…Mark.

Floor to ceiling windows. Grimed with that same, greyish dust, sickly sunlight just beginning to filter through.

But it brought no hope, no release. Amy Lawless stared emotionlessly down at the wreckage below, skyscrapers throwing long, black shadows over a barren wasteland, Gotham's desolation spreading for blocks upon empty blocks…

The rising sun. like the truth, only made her nightmare worse. The dawn was back…but this Hell remained, the sun's rays merely bringing more suffering. Like learning the boy had been abused, never held by a father and I can do that for him Ames I can give him that chance he's never had they hurt him those bastards hurt him fucked with his mind that's all he's ever known all's he's ever known he's been terrified he'll grow up to be just like them he's a Kid just a Kid I can help him I can help him I know I can help him-

...like learning her husband had never broke their faith, was still the man—ten times the man!—she had ever known him to be.

And because of that one awful moment of weakness and guilt, finding herself wishing—no, preferring—it wasn't so.

Before she'd thought she wanted this night to end. Now she wished the sun had never risen

06:17 EST  
Sisters of Mercy Convent

Metal cuffs digging into wrists. Rough cloth covering face. Voices. Footsteps…

Sudden searing light. Jesus Guerrero squinted, eyes tearing in pain. A sickening of smoke wafted into his nostrils. He began to cough.

Salazar Meroni sat not three feet away, smoking serenely.

"Motherfucker," Jesus spat. "Go to Hell."

"Ah," the Italian drawled sardonically. "Mr. Guerrero. You're finally awake."

"You operating out of a church, 'mano? You are sick bastard, sick!"

"Not operating out of a church. Merely using it as a front. I have nothing to do with any corruption that goes on behind these walls. Father Benedict sees to that without my help. But he is not my concern. We bring ….monetary donations, and nothing more. The sisters have an account for the soup kitchen, and our laundered money is placed into the bank…then distributed into Gotham through hundreds and thousands of businesses and customers. Innoculous. Invisible. Untraceable."

"They should never have touch your money!" Guerrero spat. "It's blood money. Sucio."

"Yes," Meroni stated, smile gone. "It's blood money. And some of it—it seems superfluous to remind you—is yours. The good Father voiced many of the same complaints…and turned us down. But after Sisters of Mercy burned the church was sued, and all those detectives began sniffing around…. Well, the poor Father's personal comfort suffered horribly. The price of…certain human commodities hasn't decreased," he smiled lewdly, lips pulled tight into a lusty sneer. "So after much thought and deliberation, he returned to tell us even the Pharisees used blood money to buy a field to bury the poor," then that smile faded into ruinous disgust. "Why should feeding them be any different?"

Speechless. Agony.

Sisters of Mercy. Forty-seven children dead. Thirteen Sisters. Only four survivors…Dumas. Juarez. Connolly and Kyle. Sickening feeling. Burning, tremors of adrenaline. All those lives—all those kids—! That. BASTARDO. Guerrero sputtered in horror and rage. "Y-you! You were behind that fire! You killed all those children, the nuns—!"

"Nonsense, Mr. Guerrero. I—as you have found so recently yourself—have not the stomach for taking the lives of innocent children", here, Meroni leaned forward, blowing more smoke into the heaving Latino's face, that leering, knowing smile still etched on his lips. "But having happened, I found it to be a business opportunity far too profitable to pass up."

The Mafioso took another long drag. "So take the log out of your own eye, first, you miserable Spic Bastard. Give me one good reason I shouldn't hold you and hand you over to the Joker myself."

Silence. Lips trembling, cold, dripping beads of sweat. Meroni placed a recorder on the table between them, one finger poised over the PLAY button. He pressed it slowly, sensuously, eyes never leaving his victim's face. "I have done, terrible thing…I do not think God can forgive me."

"Although that wouldn't be necessary. I'm sure the Police would be equally as interested…" Meroni laughed darkly. "You pitiful fool. You told the good Father here you were only in charge of part of this shit. Idiot. He had bigger plans! Backup, in case someone failed. And you did. He didn't come to us…and that means the Russians. Karena. Ivanovitch…Nabokov."

That last name sent shudders up even Meroni's back, gooseflesh rising. He paused, and continued. "Even if they don't succeed in breaking Him out…they're coming for you, Guerrero. You're a wanted man. The only question is…are you worth more to me dead, or alive?"

Jesus swallowed nervously. "I give you another million."

Meroni cocked his head to the left. Ever so slightly. "Gambol offered a million for the Joker. Up the stakes."

"Two-two million."

He chuckled. "Paltry pennies, Mr. Guerrero."

"Five! Five million!"

"Apparently you have no reflexes for self-preservation, Mr. Guerrero. I don't want your money."

"Ten! Ten! I, I-qué?"

"You're playing for real this time, you uppity, arrogant shit. Against those far wiser and more experienced than you can imagine. I want another commodity. Far more precious. Decidedly more dangerous: your power. Your influence. Your territory. I am the head of the Family…but the kingdom I inherited is dreadfully shrunk, and it's coffers dry. Think of it as a tax, Mr. Guerrero. You…live. I keep your drugs, your peddlers, your customers…your profits."

Silence.

Sadness. "It's all about money, 'mano. It's always about the money," Jesus whispered, raising his eyes in both humiliation and disgust "So don't be arrogante, yeah? You ain't no different than I am."

Meroni scowled. "Your answer?"

"Chingate," the broken Latino finally whispered. But both knew what that cryptic insult really meant: yes.

"You pathetic child," The Mafioso addressed him as a wayward pupil. "You wanted a piece of Gotham? Gotham belongs to us—the Elite. In the last year, we've grown stronger. Stronger than the Russians. The Batman. The Police…even the Joker. La Casa Nostra is rising to their rightful place of power, not your pathetic dogpack the Latin Pigs…"

He blew another ring of smoke, cold eyes narrowing. "There's a new sun rising in Gotham, Mr. Guerrero….Mine."

He quashed the cigar with a sudden slash of his fist. Fading smoke rose in slow, swirling circles. Red embers darkened, turned to ash, and scattered.

"I suggest you make the most of it."


	13. Chapter 13

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

August 26th

21:07 EST

TV 18 Studios

I wake.

The TV 18 lobby is nearly deserted. Few remain. Wayne. Fox. Gordon. All gone. Lawless leans over me, his lined face drawn and haggard.

"Time to go." He offers his hand-a gesture of courtesy he has never before extended. In six years of partnership I have always been his equal. Like me, the scales fall suddenly from his eyes…but it is far too late. I am Lady McBeth: I have been unsexed. And now-now!- Lawless finds me both weak and a woman.

Two things I have tried for years to forget.

Fear night. Gotham State Prison.

They've heard Arkham's been breached, the city nearly destroyed…terrorist attack, all reserves called in, national guardmen…they have all descended on the city, and there's no one left to send. They know now is the opportune time, the only time. The largest prison riot in US history is being tended to by less than 50 officers. By the time we arrive, the riot has been in suit for nearly 16 hours….The good news? Most of the guards were able to escape…. The Bad News? Trapped still inside are the remnants of the kitchen staff, a janitor, four women and three small children from visiting hours… and five faithful guards, who have now been on duty for more than 24 hours. They're bolted in the cafeteria office, a small room located on the south wall of the 60 yard long mess hall, surrounded by 120,000 square feet of fires, flickering electricity, and 600 of the state's worst offenders.

The batteries in the guard radios died hours ago, we've been unable to make contact…God only knows if they're still alive. In a low rush of whirring blades, SWAT joins us as we load up in riot gear. I heft a heavy, armored shield, hair plastered thick and sweaty to my face, Lawless stands next to me.

"Alright, men, listen up!" Hensley shouts. "Our objective is get those people the fuck out of there! We are NOT to use lethal force unless NECESSARY. We've got civies, women and kids in there and we're gonna bust 'em out! Logistics says NO live ammo-you bring live ammo in there and you risk it falling into the wrong hands! Our first priority and our ONLY priority is the safety of those people! Any questions? No? Then MOVE!"

We breach the perimeter, plastic explosives bring down the security door. Flashbangs are tossed in, deafening us. Yawning darkness and rising reek, power has been cut in order to keep all security doors locked. They've estimated perhaps half the inmates are still confined to their cell blocks…we are left with 300 sex offenders, murderers, serial killers and terrorists. Maximum security, unfortunately, was not one of the wards that remained under the electrical lock down. We will run in, blind and deaf, against an army of body building, blood crazed criminals whose only hope of liberty before age 70 is to kill us all… We run in blind, sending our small force against the terrible wrath of Leonidas…

"Clear!" We run as one, memories of both Mortalis and my stay in Memorial flashing through my head. Lawless is next to me, panting as we hit the end of the release tunnel-

Another explosion. The heavy chain link bangs open. Chaos. Mayhem. Fires burn. Hallways littered, water lines clogged, we slosh through sewage and the flotsam of floating bodies, ruined furniture-

"LOOK OUT!" An inmate swings a fire extinguisher, our man goes down into the dirty water. He raises it again, rubber bullets piercing his flesh-

Shouts. Shots. They've raided the security armory. We're sitting blind in the open entry way, staggering through three feet of water carrying over fifty pounds of Kevlar and steel. Sixteen years ago, Masterchief would've called this 'Strategic Position Deep Shit'.

I relay it to Lawless.

"No fucking kidding!" He shouts. "Initiate Operation Get the Hell out of Here! Cafeteria's to the left! Head that way-!" Shields up, debris and rounds pinging off them we inch through the disgusting water, the rancid scent of sewage searing our lungs-

Rotten stench, foul water, flames flickering smoke choking I send one sprawling into the reek with a double tap to the head. We lead the way to the cafeteria, plodding slowly across the open expanse-

The door is wedged shut, we shove and strain, forming a wall to shield those who must drop their guard to force open the doors. Rubber bullets into the locks. Ramming shields, ring of metal on metal. Plastic explosive, we duck under our shields, a terrible wave or rancid water pouring over us.

It is oily and putrid. It smells like-

A lighter is tossed from the second floor, falling in a slow, graceful arc towards the dark waters below-

"Get down!" I force Lawless under as a sea of hamburger grease ignites on the surface. A sickening rushing noise our backs singed the surface boiling, lungs straining no air, no air-!

With a gasp I surface and stand. Noisome scent of burning flesh. At least ten of our men are dead, floating limply in the oily water, burning still. Lawless staggers to his feet, I grip his arm. He is shell shocked, eyes wide, mouth gaping, a burning corpse floats gently by….

Chaos rages all around. Furniture, food, bodies, bullets rain from the balcony. Nearly fifty men stand between us and the far door, desperate to reach their prey before we do. Leverage. Some hope to buy their way out with hostages…

Others don't give a fuck about escaping.

Brackish water runs down my face, hair slicked and soaking, dripping in my eyes. We are in the calm, the eye of the storm. Lawless looks like he may faint-

"Lawless!" I smack his face. "Lawless!" He blinks, eyes focusing. He sees me, and for a long, long moment he simply stares.

"Lawless!" I shout again. Finally he answers me.

"I'm getting too old for this shit." He grunts as I hand him his shield, relief washing like a cold wave over me.

"Fall back! Fall back to the Southeast corner!" Hensley shouts. "Southeast corner!"

There are thirty of us left standing. Beaten, bruised and burned. Anyone alive had to have taken refuge under the churning water….and the arms we now hold are useless.

"Alright, men, this is how it's going down. We've still got plastics, tazers, clubs…tear gas-"

"Sir, you've got to call for backup. Ain't no fucking way we can get through this!"

"We've still got to wade out with 'em! Ain't no way in hell we can protect 16 civies!"

"We don't have to get 'em out of here, just get between these bastards and that door-"

They're wrong. No help is coming. It is up to us, and only us. Selling our lives dearly to buy time will not help them…it may still be days before they are reached…

Am I the only one who sees? We need to kill them. All of them.

"Here's the plan!" Hensley shouts as bullets ping off our shields, ricocheting into the water below. "We're going to march along the eastern wall and try to cut between them-!"

As one we scan the wall. Protected above by the balcony's overhang….open to the side, the front, the back. Sparta. Rome. We must use our shields to form a defensive shell…

We form a line, two deep, Hensley tosses two flashbangs across the room, dirty water, smoke and light briefly illuminating every corner of this dark hell. He turns to us-

-and his pale face becomes an apoplectic shade of purple. "What the fuck!" He shouts. "Who the hell let HER in here?"

Dirty water falls into my eyes, eardrums numbed by the blast. I couldn't have heard that right-

"Change of plan! We go three deep!" He shouts. "I want G.I. Jane here in the middle closest to the wall-"

"Sir-!"Lawless is incredulous.

"I don't need a girl in my way!" I'm a woman. A lia-fuckingbility. If this thing goes down, it'll have his name all over it. Even in the midst of a war zone a beaurocrat will reveal himself. Sixteen civilians, and thirty officer's lives hang in the balance…and still his priority is covering his ass.

"Sir, I'm an officer just like anyone else-!" I shout furiously, blood boiling. Sixteen civilians, four of them women, three of them small children…Gotham City is under terrorist attack, no one else is coming, we can't afford to waste any more time-can't afford to send anyone away-!

Surreal. Debris continues to rain down on us. They are pouring down the stairs, brandishing shanks, knives, fire extinguishers…. They are closing on us. Soon they will have us hemmed-

"Hensley!"

"I've got thirty officers, sixteen hostages, 600 prisoners and three million dollars of equipment to look after! I don't have time to worry about protecting you. STAND DOWN!" Spit sprays my riot mask.

Fear. Tempers. Adrenaline. Testosterone. Stress.

"HENSLEY!"They are nearly here-Hensley no longer the only one keenly interested in my gender. I can feel their gazes, hear their cat-calls. They are coming for me. Ten men move in front of me, Lawless among them.

Hensley ignores them, continues to shout, spit flying from his mouth, tunnel vision, stress taking it's toll-he is blind to the chaos around him, can't feel, smell, taste the acrid water around him, doesn't see the army forming around us….he is panicking…and he only has eyes for me.

I am shaking in rage. Protect me? In the last three years I've lost 60 pounds of muscle. I'm now feminine, lean, lithe…but not weak. I am just as spry and deadly as I ever was in Underworld. Protect me? Sixteen years ago a grenade landed, seconds to detonation I pull my helmet off burying it deep into the sand…Protect me? Gerald's fingernails scream across the linoleum, long, raking shreds pulling out of tile, carpet, plaster…

I am death, I am a hunter. I am vengeance. I am fury. Four women, three small children. If these bastards break that door… Angel!

Suddenly I am running, shrieking, breaking formation, riot shield tight in my hands I spin and hurl it with all my might through the crowd of inmates before me. "PALTRON!" Lawless shouts-

"HEY! You want some of this? You want some of this!"

I am Samson. I am David. Shank raises lunges for my neck I break fingers, wrist, arm, nose, it falls epilepsyflashingroaring they toss more flashbangs towards the north door another mountain of muscle another outstretched hand I bury the shank in his left carotid it is slick and slimy with blood my face splattered Lawless next to me shouting shouting more explosions men come rushing we charge desperately towards that door I was too late too late to save Angel I will not be late again-!

We lost five more men. None of the hostages…

…And we fucking killed them all.

Lawless opens the glass doors for me, one hand gently on the small of my back. My eyes burn and prick in the sudden orange glow of a buzzing streetlight. Again I try uselessly to excuse my tears.

Angel. In both life and death, his memory makes me both terribly weak…and horribly strong.

August 26th

21:10 EST

103rd Street

Concerned. But not condescending. Lawless watched me walk in here…he will help me walk out. No bullshit, no 'it's too far, you really shouldn't, let me get the car.' He is strength, he is steadfast…

We take the long walk to our…to his cruiser, one of his large hands still pressed gently on the small of my back, strong arm supporting me as I limp gingerly on my throbbing right leg. She is a beautiful car-sleek and black. Six years of memories.

None of which include me riding in the backseat. Briefly Lawless may have doubted my sanity, even now he doubts my failing body…but he has never doubted my heart.

August 26th

21:16 EST

103rd Street

Outside. It is dark and cool-a light wind offering small respite from my still burning fever. Several hours of sleep and two gallons of force-fed Gatorade have done little to heal me.

Sleek black sides. Bright, polished chrome. Gotham's harrowing nightsky reflects in her multi-faceted frame, myriads of lights in telescoping torrents, lost in the domed curvature of the open sky.

Lawless reaches around me to open the passenger side door. A young officer sits inside, turns his face towards us, dark eyes gleaming-

I gasp and stop dead.

Lawless looks down at me, mistaking my faltering for pain. "You alright?" He speaks softly, hesitation in his eyes, his normally gruff voice soothed with concern.

I have seen this hesitation before-this gentleness. But it wasn't directed towards me.

April 22nd. Darkness-but the night is far from still. Red and blue lights swirl lazily, casting the neighborhood in an eerie glow, rain slamming down in machine-gun bursts.

Chinatown. I park, yank the keys and the beating wipers die in mid-sweep. The seat belt snakes between my breasts as I shove the door and dash for the porch, feet instantly freezing in the rising flood.

Hair plastered to my face, cold drops running down my back a young officer runs out with an umbrella. "What do we have, Officer?" I shout above the pattering downpour and rumbling thunder.

"Triple homicide. They think it was Vladimir Nabokov-"

Bastard. Been at large since Fear Night. Lawless and I put the motherfucker behind bars not five years ago. He's a rapist…and a monster. Gerald's death is nothing compared to this. And now he's back, tormenting the civilians we have sworn to protect.

Too shrouded in my own anger I do not see. It is only now I realize it is his small, boyish hand that holds open the door for me.

Silence. The deluge of rain is muted and dulled. There is neither jibing or jesting. Nabokov's work is harrowing…and horrible.

Kitchen. Hallway. Faces stony, eyes red. Bedroom. Three naked girls lie sprawled across the bed. The eldest is maybe thirteen. The youngest…five. Yet it is difficult to say, their fragile Han features are as delicate, as still as the faces of the pale, porcelain dolls lining the shops of Chinatown.

A deep growl. Lawless is at my side. "I ID'd it. But we need you to confirm." Good man. Good cop. CSI hasn't had time to move, to contaminate anything…

I am sure. But I must confirm. I edge closer, and each dead face stares up at me, dark eyes open. For a moment, each is Angel. Nabokov, you motherfucker…I was nearly too late to save Angel's life. I am far, far too late to help these girls.

Lawless offers gloves. I trust him explicitly, but work must be done. As MCU Lieutenant, I must confirm this falls under my jurisdiction. "Do we have a name?" I ask emotionlessly.

"Jane Doe one and two. We have a positive ID on her-" He indicates the eldest. "Xiao Wang. This is her parent's house-we think she may have been babysitting. We still haven't been able to contact."

I brush aside Xiao Wang's long hair, and there, cut through the flesh of her tiny, pre-pubescent breast is a dark and bloody N. It's done with at the flat end of a seal, heated on the kitchen stove until the iron glows red hot, flesh sizzling and peeling back. The putrid smell of burnt hair and fat still saturates the air.

"Bastard." Is all I say.

"Confirmed!" Lawless barks to CSI. "Lt. Paltron is now in charge of this investigation!"

I nod to them. "Get me evidence." Cameras. Swabs. UV lights, proteins and body fluids lighting up in the darkness…

I walk the responding officers through the drill, Lawless at my side. Even in light of this horror it feels right, natural. It is only now I realize how much I have missed working the street. It has been over four months since I left Homicide…

Finally I realize what is missing: Aaron's new shadow. His rookie partner…Jim? James? Or am I confusing him with Gordon?

"How's Connolly shaping up?"

"Connolly?" Fred Milton asks disinterestedly, about to crack the first joke of the evening. "He takes some getting used to. But he's not a bad gay—I mean guy."

"He's a damn good Kid." Lawless growls, shooting a glare to Milton. His irreverence knows no bounds.

I smile bitterly, opening the file in my hands, lost in a rush of adrenaline at the sight of Nabokov's sneering face. Between him and Doestoiveski, it is hard to say who is worse. Whatever else he is, Dmitri has the decency not to fuck little kids.

"Where is he? Connolly, I mean." I flip another page, noting his absence among the assembled officers.

"Outside," Lawless says. "He didn't need to see this."

I drop the file, it scatters across the kitchen floor, papers sticking to the dampened tile. I do not bend to retrieve it. I raise my eyes slowly to Lawless'. His says nothing. I've known him long enough that silence speaks volumes. Something is wrong. Off.

EMS struggles through the door, dragging wheeled stretchers and muddy turf over the carpet. Everyone's eyes are turned to this unfeeling irony.

"Send him in." I state quietly.

"I really don't think he needs to see this," Lawless counters.

I raise an eyebrow, but no explanation is forthcoming. "I think he does." Lawless calls him Kid. Treats him like a Kid. But he isn't-youngest cop in the US police force be damned, Connolly is an officer. And a rookie in goddamned Gotham City-a hazardous duty post for fucking sure. He needs to know what's out there. Naivety will only get him killed. And if he can't handle it-he has no business being a fucking cop.

"I'm his partner. I think I know better than you what he-"

"And I'm your boss," I say coolly. "Or had you forgotten?" His statement is less than fifteen minutes old. "I want him on bagging detail."

Lawless is rigid. "No."

"Bradley!" I bark, raising my voice for the first time above a slight whisper. "Bring Connolly in. I want him helping EMS!"

Eugene's face is inscrutable. Milton busies himself with paperwork. Lawless glares, hazel eyes boring holes through mine. I turn away.

Soaked to the skin, hair in dripping, matted locks against his ridiculously boyish face Connolly enters, shooting Lawless a curious look. Innocently, naively he follows Bradley to the waiting slaughter.

Shock. His lips part. Face pales. Those dark eyes widen, then clench closed. Horror and nausea wash in waves over him. Flitting open again, those eyes are wounded and wet with tears. Minutes pass. Still he is frozen, agonized at the sickening reality before him.

Lawless stands tense beside me, shaking under the overpowering urge to surge forward, pull him away, erase the horror of that image in the sure comfort of a strong embrace-

Angel. I know that desire well. Had I seen, had I known, I would hold him in my arms, face pressed against my chest, kiss his head, his hair, his face, press him closer, fight away the wave of nightmares-

How was I so blind? His eyes are my Angel's eyes, dark and light, shot with tears, his face my Angel's face, stricken, brows knit in pain, tiny mouth falling open, lips parting…My son. My child. I still do not have the strength to think of him as a man.

A rough hand against my back. I sit heavily, Lawless still supporting me. One hand under my knees he swings me into the seat, tucking me into the car and closing the door.

I hate being treated so goddamned weak. Perhaps because I know I am.


	14. Chapter 14

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

AN: Ugh. Two months is way too long a time to go without updating. For anyone who hangs in there, thanks! As a warning, some events in this chapter will only make sense in light of an additional update to Aurora (chapter 12).

Until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed in these two words: wait, and hope.

-Edmund Dantes, The Counte of Monte Cristo

GCPD Operation "NIGHTSTALKER"

Alias BATMAN. Real Name: UKNOWN. Status: INVESTIGATION ONGOING (PRIORITY)

The following is a copy of a document submitted to the Gotham City Star in the Public Opinions Section. Initial suspicions were roused when both the name and address of the writer were determined falsifications. Some believe this letter to be the work of the Batman himself. Currently, investigations are underway to accredit this letter to a Detective Aaron Lawless (MD). Language pathologists assisting MCU have encountered many syntax structures similar to those encountered in past submissions to The Lancet under Orthopedic Advancements, as well as a biographic work on Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. entitled Americans and Race: the Inherent Injustice of Equality.

Note: In light of recent events involving the death of two Gotham City Public Service Personnel, MCU has shifted it's priority target from the Vigilante Batman to a criminal labeling himself The Joker (See John Doe #387). The investigations against Detective Lawless have currently been postponed.

Additional Note: The Batman is now charged with the murder of District Attorney Harvey Dent. Subsequently, this document is believed to be crucial evidence to the Batman's identity. Investigations are ongoing.

Further Note: Charges against Detective Lawless concerning masked vigilantism were subsequently investigated and dropped. In addition, allegations of publicizing protected information were also dropped as all figures appearing in this document were open to public perusal in the FEMA Fear Night report at the time of the article's original publication.

Final Note: This documents is believed to be no longer of any relevance to the hunt for the Batman.

IN RESPONSE TO BAT-BASHING, RED-HOT READER WRITES BACK

I am writing this column in response to Superintendent Reginald Baxter's Letter to the Editor entitled "Costumed Crusaders Bring Violence, Not Peace." In this letter, Baxter claims to objectively note that the "Batman has cost this city more in property damage than Fear Night itself." He also claims that full responsibility for numerous '"copy-cat crimes falls on the shoulders of this masked menace alone." He commences with the unbiased statement that "thanks to idolized vigilantism, Gotham's tax dollars are being wasted on replacing light poles and searching for a man with an identity crisis instead of fixing the real problem behind Gotham's crime and corruption: poor educational systems and high unemployment rates."

Let me then be equally as unprejudiced:

Bulls-, Mr. Baxter.

If you want to talk objectively, let us talk objectively. But if you wish to be another one of thousands of under-researched, over-rehearsed opinions, have the b-s to own up to it.

Now, Mr. Baxter, let's talk objectively.

Fallacy the First: "Batman has cost this city more in property damage than Fear Night itself."

Contrary to Mr. Baxter's opinion, the majority of the damaged incurred by the Batman was posted against private automobile insurance companies, not against the city proper. Damage to road-ways and Public Properties for which the Batman is undeniably responsible totals to less than six million in damages, which is roughly three percent of the 165 million dollars of damage to public transit track, sewer mains and city roadways alone incurred on Fear Night.

Fallacy the Second: "And as if the presence of the Batman wasn't enough, in recent months there have been a surge of Batman impersonators and rogue vigilantes such as the Scarecrow whose methods of justice make even the most law-contemptuous bounty hunters seem tame. There can be no question the continued presence of Batman and the GCPD's enablement have brought further harm to this city. Clearly, the responsibility for the damages and deaths incurred by these copy-cat crimes falls on the shoulders of this masked menace alone."

First, I must question sincerely whether or not Mr. Baxter's final statements may be more accurate than I previously believed. Perhaps poor educational systems can explain his apparent inability to execute elementary arithmetic. Although in the above paragraph he specifically mentions two separate parties with culpability, he is only able to conclude there exists one culprit. Clearly, Gotham's tax-payers should complain not only against the costly repairs of streetlamps as a cause of the "poor educational systems" which constitute the "real problem behind Gotham's crime and corruption."

Secondly, I must propose that the presence of additional vigilantes is more a fault of the second source which Mr. Baxter so blatantly ignores: the supposed "enablement" of the GCPD. However, in doing so I must immediately point out it is not the blame of the GCPD alone, nor should their creation of a task-force currently employing five detectives dedicated to the Batman's case alone be labeled "enablement." Like the "poor educational systems" (for which Mr. Baxter is responsible ), the GCPD and other law enforcement organizations are limited to the resources which Gotham gives them. Which the citizens of Gotham choose to give them. If more money is what is necessary to educate our children and keep our streets safe, wouldn't it be a better use of Mr. Baxter's time and energy to write a letter to the City Council about raising taxes instead of railing a man who only attempts to make up for what our current law enforcement agencies lack?

Fallacy the Third: "the real problem behind Gotham's crime and corruption: poor educational systems and high unemployment rates."

The real problem behind crime and corruption not only in Gotham City but for our modern world as a whole does not stem from lack of funding poured into the public educational systems, but rather their investment into pedagogal ideologies that seek to misplace the responsibility of the individual onto an organization. We cannot afford to continue thinking that poor education and unemployment necessitate the presence of crime or corruption, or that they somehow justify the violence in our streets. Following this logic, it is GCPSC and the Chamber of Commerce which should 'justly' be held accountable for the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne, not their killer Joe Chill—just another unfortunate victim of substandard education and poverty, of whom we can hardly expect anything more.

The real problem this City and this Nation are facing is not the rise of the vigilantes, but rather the end of the age of personal responsibility. Over a hundred years ago, Freud proposed a system of psychoanalysis in which the suppression of the subconscious desire produced feelings of guilt and self-incrimination, and resultant low self-esteem was the sole cause of the current 'evils' of the world.

I must, with equal kindness and clarity as I have afforded Baxter, be frank enough to label this psychobabbling bulls—t.

Because before Sigmund Freud became the Founding Father of Psychology, there existed another group of men

Founding Father's created a Democracy, and in so doing, opened Pandora's Box. Freedom of thought, expression, and self-responsibility …But inherent in that belief is the knowledge that these unalienable rights can be misconstrued for evil. As citizens of a democracy (or what was once a democracy) we must be prepared to take the bad with the good, or we cannot take the good at all.

Since the appearance of the Batman, Gotham's citizens heard repeatedly that vigilantes demonstrate nothing but contempt for the law, and again I must argue that this concept contains a fundamental flaw. There are countless examples strewn throughout history of vigilants who have opposed the law in order to uphold a moral standard which they believe higher than human government, universal truths which unite us all. Vigilantes who have been willing both to fight and to die for a cause which they believe is true justice…men, who in history books, are simply labeled heroes:

An individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for the law

Men, like Reverend King, Jr. Is true vigilantism ever contemptuous of the law? Does it scorn justice? Are we ready to assign these labels to cultural icons such as Indira Ghandi, Thomas Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln?

Yet before I am criticized about their distance and irrelevance to the current situation in Gotham City, let me mention another name: Selina Kyle, now infamous for the murder of Stan Shillings who Kyle accused of allegedly raping her sister. This alleged rape, and subsequent murder, occurred within the bounds of Gotham City not six years ago. Once arrested, Miss Kyle pled guilty to Murder with no appeals or reduction in sentence for cooperation with the investigation. She elected instead to voluntarily fulfill the full term of the law. As a citizen of Gotham who has watched hundreds of greater criminals take refuge in Arkham, disappear after posting bail, or admit guilt only after their sentence has been whittled to a laughing excuse for true justice, I propose that Miss Kyle's unblinking acceptance of the consequences of her actions shows not contempt but "the utmost respect for the law."

Recently I have heard talk of a day when Gotham City will no longer 'need a Batman.' Many have voiced their opinions here in this very newspaper, and I shudder to think of their naivety. A society which never questions itself, that does not seek to keep its government in check, that does not demand a perfect equality of justice and purity from corruption of all its citizens is not a better nor safer society. Such a society is never a society in no need of men like Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., but rather one in which he simply never could have existed…an alternate reality in which their was no Monroe Doctrine, no accountability nor comraderie, an alternate reality in which the United States of America did not intervene in World War II…a reality which could have continued only under the glory of the Fuhrer's Third Reich, or vanished into the inescapable oblivion of Mutually Assured Destruction.

With the excitement over the new Dent Administration, I can only hope, as a citizen of Gotham City, that this corruption will be curtailed, and it will no longer be necessary for the Batman to intervene in our affairs. I wish instead that the soul of this city would be such that her heroes could have faces, that our vigilantes could be our citizens, our politicians, our governors…I wish every Gothamite would take up this duty, this collective mantle, so one man would never have to.

But finally, I hope that Gotham would realize that Vigilantism isn't faith in a man. It is adherence to an idea. We can never allow ourselves to forget that our loyalty to a man must be dependant on his loyalty to a cause. We cannot grow so comfortable with the thought of a Vigilante, whether a District Attorney, a Presidential administration, or even a democratic government that we let ourselves grow lazy. For good or ill, Pandora's Box is open. It is up to all of us-myself included-to do what we can for Gotham with the rights and responsibilities with which we have been endowed. We then, must all be watchers of the watchmen. Independent thinking and personal accountability-the very essence of not only Vigilantism but also of Democracy itself- are two ideas that our society can never afford to retire.

Thomas Payne, Gotham City Resident

1776 Independence Lane

9:00 EST

The Fountainhead

Building groaning aching falling plaster chunks crumbling glass shattering joists screaming floor collapsing move your feet keep on running pray to God you've on a lower floor a lower floor please God let me be on a lower floor light streaming window run down the hall the light growing stronger dodge that beam the light the light you have to make it to the light-!

Two hours previously…

6:53 EST

Gotham United Methodist

Coughing. Groaning. Sickly cries and sobs. Bruce felt a shiver crawling up his back. So many people, so many dead. There wasn't room for them all, sitting or sprawled in hallways, nurses picking their way through carefully with water and antiseptic…closing the eyes of the dead.

No room not enough supplies goddamnit we need more beds!

A terrible, nightmarish hell of Bethlehem. No room in the inn…

…the Inn. Placing a check in that simpering attendant's hand, arrogant smile, people laughing at the absurdity…I just bought this hotel…

Fox had been right. The Batman couldn't help….but billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne could.

A pro-offered Styrofoam cup of water, a blood-pressure cuff. He focused blearily in the dim lighting: Amy Lawless, RN.

"Thanks," he mumbled weakly. She tried to rise, but his large hand had gripped her arm. "Where am I?"

"Methodist." She whispered emotionlessly, downcast eyes not meeting his. Around them, those plaster-coated, eerie demons spread in terrible heaps of limbs and heads. Bruce shuddered, looking at his own chalk-white arm. He had to look like death itself.

He jerked his head to the sprawling mess littering the corridor. "You need more rooms, right?" Hesitantly those dark blue eyes found his, their color so welcome in this spectrumless hell. She nodded once, barely perceptible.

"I think I can help."

7:12 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

Phone ringing. Work to be done. Nichelle, Micheala…his own family might be wondering if he was safe-

"I might have to take that," Lucius informed the technician.

"Right," Bradley responded, packing more ice around the injured leg as the elderly gentleman reached for the phone with a grimace and a cry.

"Let me do that, man." Eugene muttered, stretching for the small cellular. He glanced at the screen, a wave of relief washing over him.

Fox sensed the pause, sweating even more- "Who is it?"

Eugene tossed him the phone. Lucius caught it in one weathered hand, relief flooding his anxious heart. There, on that small, luminescent screen, two words that calmed his fears: BRUCE WAYNE.

7:23 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"How's it coming?" Lawless grunted.

Milton shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. We're finding more survivors…but that doesn't mean we're saving lives. Just got off with Bradley. Wayne's at Methodist, said it was a shithole. People dying in the halls, not enough staff or beds…"

Cold fury eating through him. "What's taking the National Guard so fucking long?" Goddamnit, those people deserved more! Gotham deserved more than that!

Fred Milton laughed bitterly. "You remember Katrina? This is as fast as FEMA works, man. And as for the National Guard…well…what if they're wasting their time doing something else?"

"Anti-terrorism." Aaron growled. More worried about the idea of national security than the growing toll of human lives.

"Yeah," Milton said lowly. "Or looking for us."

7:31 EST

Gotham United Methodist

Exodus.

"I want all those NOT needing immediate critical care to be transported immediately! If they can walk, they're walking, if not, take 'em in wheelchairs! All ancillary staff, non-surgical and non-critical care aids and nurses will be accompanying them!"

Chaos. Moving beds. People staggering to their feet, nurses and aids taking frantic vitals, patients staggering into buses…

Amy Lawless shivered, remembering another hospital only a year ago, some sense of impending dread warning her to run, to get out, to get away the whole place was going to blow-!

But this was a year later. The Joker was safely in Arkham. And these patients were going to safety.

"I need help," Wayne said.

She looked up at him tiredly. "You and everyone else here."

"I need to find someone." Her eyes grew even more teary. But the billionaire persisted.

"Her name's Rach-Rebecca. Rebecca James."

Grey, faceless crowd, grasping hands sobs whispers Chavez Aaron Ian no more heartbeats-

She let out a strangled sob. "I'm sorry Mr. Wayne." She motioned the chaos around them. "I'm- I'm a little busy."

7:37 EST

Sisters of Mercy Convent

Footsteps. Sister Teresa Margaret raised her head, then quickly bowed it again. "Father Benedict."

The Priest surveyed her with emotionless eyes. "You are weary, my daughter. Go. Rest."

She nodded in acquiescence, rising slowly and stiffly from her vigil. The Father watched her go, unblinkingly. When the last shadow of her gown passed the corner, he turned away.

Not two minutes later, Salvatore Meroni exited the corridor, feet slapping noisily against the cold stone floor. Tired as he was, there was a spring in his step.

7:38

Gotham United Methodist

"Please, no! I can't go I need to call-!" The sixteen year old struggled against the nurses' hands. "I have to tell my mom I'm okay please let me just call-!"

Bruce ran to the teenager's side, his very presence causing her tormenters to release their grip. "Here." He handed the phone to the tiny girl. "Make it quick."

Sara McCloud let out a sob, falling into his chest. Bruce patted her back in frustration, still scanning the gathering crowd for James' hair. No sign of her

7:39 EST

Eagle Harvest Estates

Phone ringing. Ringing. Phone. Sara. God.

The answering machine picked up, and Travis and Cindy McCloud's hearts leapt together as they jumped for the phone. Because that voice-that voice-! Belonged to no one but their daughter.

"Mom, it's me I'm fine I'm at Methodist-"

"SARA!"

"Mom I love you so much I can't talk long, I'm, I'm they're taking us to Skylight-"

But Cindy was sobbing so hard she couldn't talk. Travis ripped the phone from her grip, pulling her face into his chest, weeping himself, assuring his only daughter it would be alright, to get on the bus, that no matter what happened they would meet her there-

7:40 EST

The Fountainhead

The building was trembling. Her radio was dead. Not four hours ago Old National had collapsed in a plume of dust and smoke…

Shit. She kicked at the steel doors again in ferocity, swinging the butt of her Beretta into the hinges but no luck, the stock broke off with the force, fingers breaking-

"HIJO DE PUTA!" Montoya shrieked, falling heavily to her knees, the bloodied hand pressed into her mouth. Where the fuck was Crispus when you needed him? Her back against the cold steel body stiff and cold shivering in the bursts of wind, wanting nothing better than to see his dark face, to have a good cry-

No. She wasn't going down like this. She jumped up again as the building let out another low moan, feet finding that unforgiving steel again and again and again, each time shouting abren, abren, abren-!

7:42 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

The door banged open, Lawless's gun up at the ready, stock swinging down, smack of metal on bone, Milton and Gordon running the intruder slammed against the wall, weapon wrest from his hand-

"What the fuck is going on!" A very familiar voice shouted. Fred Milton spun the unwitting victim around, letting out a laugh and giving Crispus Allen the queenmother of all bearhugs.

"Jesus, man. It's damn good to see you-"

"Yeah," The black mountain of a man growled, rubbing his head, glaring at a sheepish looking Lawless. "Wish I could say the same."

7:43 EST

The Fountainhead

"ABREN!" buckling steel, warping hinges she wrenched at the gapping doors, struggling to open them further around the tight-bound lock. Hands bloodied, feet bruised shoulder useless Renee Montoya shoved under the still locked doorway like a dog under a chain link fence-

Panting in pain and fear, eyes tearing, she leaned against the wall in sagging despair. Each echo of the buiding's death throes was magnified a thousand times, every groaning joist, every buckling frame…

Montoya shuddered. She was alone. 120 storeys above the ground. And save for the small pool of sunlight trickling under the battered doors…the stairwell was completely dark.

7:50 EST

Gotham United Methodist

Still wandering the halls searching praying hoping to see that winning smile, a brilliant splash of red-There-! Short. Bald. Hawaiian print polo-Paul. Bruce shoved through the crowded ER bay, ignoring protests of staff, pushing past sobbing victims and spinning the bald man around by his shoulders.

"James!" Bruce shouted. "Where's James!"

7:51 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Got five more-northeast corner." Bradley related over the comm.. Pinpointing them now-damn. Got exact locations on four of 'em. Send a Cardia team to search for the other-"

Lucius ran tired fingers through his coarse grey hair. Five more. Out of thousands. Crowded hospitals, dwindling supplies…thank God Nichelle and Micheala were okay. That his daughter-that he-wasn't one of the hundreds of thousands left wondering where loved ones were, if they were among the living or dead.

"Three. Wayne Boulevard and Dent." Lucius related, returning his mind to his task. He could worry later, grieve later…each and every one of those weak, short-lived signals was someone else's Nichelle, their Micheala. Fox held onto the image of their upturned, smiling faces, cherry popsicle running down dark cheeks, tongues stained brilliant red, white balloons floating in the breeze-

Kids were the hope for the future. Every parent's love. Worst fear. Weakest point. No greater panic. You didn't touch kids. Whatever else, you left kids out of it, Fox shuddered. Whoever had done this had planned it well…

7:53 EST

Gotham United Methodist

Fragile. Delicate. Pale. Bruce took the small hand in his.

Alive. More than he could have hoped for, digging frantically under that marble slab, dragging the body out, broken and limp like a doll, limbs dangling lifelessly-

…He called her Rachel. Twice now. Why?

James stirred, blinked groggily, focusing in the dim light. She let out a gasp and tried to sit up.

"Lay back down." Bruce said gently.

But she resisted. Wiped her green eyes groggily, pulled the oxygen out of her nose and sat up higher.

"Jesus, Beck, you had me scared for a minute." Paul interrupted, giving the reporter a tight hug. "I thought I'd lost you-" She leaned against him only briefly, not folding into his fatherly embrace. The cameraman held her at an arm's length, worry etched deeper into his wrinkled countenance.

"Beck?"

She struggled against them to turn, to stand, throwing back the tangle of sheets-

"Stay down," Bruce said. "James-"

"Who's covering?" She asked wildly. "Who's covering?"

"Shaw." Paul soothed. "You're fine-"

"Got to get up-have to help-" She pleaded, struggling weakly against them, they lifted her back in the bed, thrashing feebly, crying out-

"You're fine!" Paul cried desperately, holding her shaking shoulders. "You've done enough, Beck, you've done enough-"

Slow, shuddering sigh. Hot tears leaking down. She lay still, sobbing, the middle-aged man cradling her awkwardly, red curls pressed against his chest-

Something wet. Bruce raised a hand, staring in confusion at the tear quivering on his fingertip. It beaded then ran, a single streak of pale pink flesh etched through the plaster coating his hands, Paul's steady voice still whispering over and over again: you've done enough, you've done enough….

He trembled and turned away.

8:01 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"…Dad woke up from open heart surgery. Tell him hey man. Asks me if it's true there's been a terrorist attack in Gotham City. Yeah, dad, I say. Whole hell of a lot of people got killed. And he says, what the fuck are you still doing here. I say good question. Took the quickest flight I could back from Metropolis." Crispus Allen shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Folks, I am jet lagged, over caffeinated, and ready to go."

Gordon grimaced. "We're glad to have you." But the smile didn't reach his eyes. Allen had no idea what he had just walked into. Should have stayed in Metropolis with his parents, his wife and children…

He didn't know what would come of this. But he made that decision himself. Crispus Allen had walked in blind. Didn't know that he might never see his family again. And that thought brought images of Barb and BB, of Jimmy to his mind. And no matter the distractions, the worry, the fear, the chaos…those images would not go away.

8:02 EST

The Fountainhead

Twelve steps to a flight. Keep your hand on the right wall. Two paces to a landing. Twelve more steps. Keep your hand on that wall. Two more paces. Twelve more steps. Twelve steps to a flight, two flights to a storey, one hundred and twenty storeys but was the roof higher? Try to conjure a mental image, helicopter approach blinding spray whipping wind yelling in a headset nearly swept into neighboring buildings can't remember don't remember go twelve steps to a flight two flights to a storey how many storeys…fight the nightmares nothing is here in the dark nothing behind you nothing chasing you the building is falling collapsing don't think about it don't think about it oh god twin towers legacy don't think about it chick you'll make it just keep going nothing behind you don't run don't fall don't trip keep your hand on that right wall open yawning pit in the darkness left banister open to a well of deeper blackness a gaping maw animal's dying screams terrible wailing earth hungry and waiting to eat don't trip don't fall keep your hand on that fucking wall-

8:11 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"…where is everyone?" Crispus asked.

The gathered officers exchanged hesitant glances. Allen's heart sank in the silence. Nearly twenty years of street experience. He knew that pause. Knew that look. Knew it, had used it, seen people deny it, try to stop him, to silence him, if only it wasn't said it wasn't done-

Disbelief, denial-

Lawless took his arm and began to speak.

"Crispus…when the Legacy fell-when she fell more than two thirds of all of Gotham's, of all of us were there. MCU-"

Catch your breath. Don't cry. Don't choke. Wait. Don't speak. Take a breath. "Damn." Allen finally whispered, faces flashing before his eyes, fellow officers, co-workers, friends.

…Montoya. Bad, cold feeling deep in your gut. Don't puke. Be a man. Eyes finally registering the stark, terrible truth before him:

Lawless. Detective Aaron Lawless.

…Alone.

"They were there, weren't they," the words tumbling in a sinking whisper. "Paltron and Pint-size and Montoya. They were there."

8:15 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"As you can see, Victims of the Legacy Attack are now being shuttled from major emergency centers into Skylight for minor injuries. The hotel is currently updating their website with names of survivors on the property, and urging family members to check this website , again that's , with no spaces or underscores-"

The screen was still tuned to Channel 18, all eyes upturned, hoping to hear good news, see family members, learn who was behind the attacks-

The line wove through the lobby and halls, those able to be dismissed to Skylight sitting or standing, some laying down, awaiting their turn to ride a GCPSC bus to their next location and the promise of rest.

"That was…that was a good thing you did." James said softly, gesturing with her head to the screen.

"Checking out that nurse's ass?" Bruce asked with pretend confusion.

Rebecca shook her head, curls falling across her face perhaps the tiniest hint of a smile stretching across thin lips. She raised her green eyes to his-

Sudden jostling down the corridor, shouts of MOVEgetoutoftheway! Feet run over by the careening gurney a blonde paramedic running ahead of the cart clearing the hall-

Shoved against the wall, pull James back stretcher hurtling through one frantic glimpse of a tiny girl, dark hair plastered against her china face, bright shock of blood splattered under her hairline, slanted eyes closed tightly in pain-

Agony. He felt it before he heard it, sensed it instinctively, that hand tightening to a bruising claw that chest expanding, breasts pressing against him, the deep, long inhale…then his eardrums shattering losing his grip Beck tearing away from his grasp crying GraciegracieohgodGracie-!

8:23 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Hands on Lawless' shoulders, gripping tightly. Desperate, fearing to hear the answer to the question now burning on his tongue, tearing up his insides-

"She's alright."

Crispus blinked. "W-what?"

"She's alright," the auburn-haired man repeated. "Renee. She's fine."

Sudden release, knees buckling, shaking now.

"…adrenaline letdown." Lawless was saying. "You should sit, drink some water-"

8:24 EST

Arkham Asylum

Patient Care Unit

More footsteps more fury more ricochets of rubber bullets eating into the crowd more cries killhimkillhimhedeservestodieforthishe'llpayforthis-!

Even stories above and floors away, the presence of the growing mob could no longer be ignored.

…interesting. Yes. Quite interesting. People were so unordinary, so unoriginal…

So predictable.

A year ago all these idiots, these bleeding heart liberals with no brains or balls had protested against the death penalty, had fought to label him insane…and yet here they were, de-man-ding he be held accountable…Twelve months later. Twelve short months later. And what had changed?

You see their morals, their cod-duh, is a baaad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble.

Nothing had changed. Things had just gotten…personal.

Like Harvey. Harveyharveyharveydent. And that Gordon. James Gordon. Not quite as fun to say-

But the possibilities for other fun were endless. Ya see, Gordon was uh, married. Gordon had kiddos. Gordon would do anything to protect them…even lie. Cheat. Perhaps kill.

No. Not kill. Not yet. The Commissioner was just as self-righteous as the Bat but with none of the style.

Fools. They hadn't won anything. No, lost everything. Too blind to know they handed him Gotham's little soul, all wrapped up in a neat little bundle called L-I-E-S. Proved him wrong, did they? Proved him wrong with false hopes , with morals, with their fake little cod-duh of honor?

No, oh no. The Joker tittered to himself. ….it's like I told ya all along, boys. You'll drop it. Drop it at the first sign of trouble. I wanted to see what you would do…and ya didn't disappoint…

The Joker yawned idly, sinking lower into the shadows surrounding the alcove of the door until only his gleaming yellow eyes were left.

He was getting ready. Waiting.

Waiting for the Batman's grand appearance. He could wait like this all day… he could wait forever. Wait as long as it took…

8:49 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"Got it." Mark panted, releasing the pressure from the drill as blood and CSF began oozing gently down that porcelain face. Amy Lawless' hands trembled as she suctioned it away, caffeine, lack of sleep, hormones playing tricks on her mind-

Raised voices, people arguing outside the Surgery Doors-

"Here, give me that," Mark said kindly, taking the suction from her slender hands, fingers brushing hers through two layers of latex-free, sterile gloves, dark eyes meeting her own-"Take care of that for me?"

Amy Lawless shuddered. She didn't look back. Ripped the gloves from her hands, washed vigorously, and threw open the doors to the scrub room.

"Ma'am, you need to stand back!" The paramedic was shouting, arms around the taller woman's waist, hauling her away from the doors. "You!" She shouted to the RN. "Help me out here will you!"

"She knows that girl!" A giant was shouting. "She knows that little girl is it too much to ask you just let her through-!"

"ENOUGH!"

Shock. Silence. The raw force of her emotions startling the entire ward into astonished pause.

The RN trembled, panting for breath, throat torn and dry, the only noises her ragged breathing. All eyes on her, she straightened slowly and slicked sweaty hair from her eyes before speaking.

"What are you doing?" She asked listlessly, all emotion spent.

"Please," the red-head whispered from Hanson's relaxing arms. "Please, I know her-"

That man-the one who helped with Skylight—Bruce Wayne-joined the pleading. "She's just a little girl, just let her through-"

"Only family-" Amy's heart broke. It was horrible, like imagining BB or James Jr. and being unable to help, unable to hold their hands, tell them mommy and daddy would be there soon-

The red-haired woman began to weep, collapsing into Hanson's arms-

"You!" Jennifer rounded on Bruce. "Take her." She placed Beck in his arms none too gently, gave him a grim look and a "I'm sorry, but I've still got work to do" by means of dismissal.

She turned in the elevator doorway, gurney in tow. "Thanks, Lawless." She said. Amy nodded wearily in return, and with slow and sinking finality, the doors clenched shut.

8:52 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"No, warn them to steer clear. The whole plaza's unsafe, structurally unsound-but Jesus, the Southwest side especially-"

Bradley stopped, only for a second. A fault line? Was it just possible-? "Fox and I had at least a hundred different cell phone signals clustered around the Fountainhead-I don't have exact locations, batteries dying, perhaps family members not calling back but we can send a team with the Cardia…no, don't send EMS. You need FD. That place is a mess-the whole building could collapse at any minute now-"

He sent Fox a meaningful glance. Hurry. When the Fountainhead collapsed…their imaging would be lost. They would be left with nothing but the last coordinates of victims, bodies…structural damage…

"Who wants to speak with who? He's back? No shit." Bradley exclaimed, Allen's arrival finally announced over the comm.. "Right-"

But it wasn't right. Not right at all. A sudden dread before he could even think to panic, to curse-

Renee.

8:54 EST

Gotham United Methodist

The woman was still crying. The RN turned wearily, tired tears of her own beginning to form.

"Please," Beck whispered, "Please-"

Baby's heart not beating Aaron God knows where her own son still in daycare…She shook her head. "Only family." One hand on that goddamned door, that pleading voice cutting deeper, drawing her back-

"Her name is Gracie. Gracie Tanaka-!" The red-head shouted. "Trish was her aunt. All her family was there. All of them. Yuki even flew in from Tokyo…" That giant tightened his grip, pulled her closer-

One tear. That's all she could shed. This red-headed stranger was pouring her heart out to her and one tear was all she could spare-

"Please. Please." The woman whispered. "I'm the closest thing to family she's got left-"-

8:56 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Come on comeoncomeon! Come on, Renee, pick up the fucking phone-!" The officer was shouting, hitting send again and again and again, calling over the radio, large thumbs sending a clumsy text-

8:57 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

"What the fuck you mean she's still on top the Fountainhead-!" Crispus Allen shouted into the Comm. "Are you fucking stupid? What the hell is wrong with you-you don't just abandon a woman on top a fucking building-!"

Lawless and Gordon were struggling to hold Allen back, to silence him, Fred Milton sending an emergency signal out to the six Medevac choppers-

"Emergency flyby, I repeat, we need an emergency flyby of the Fountainhead. Requesting visual of the roof, do you copy?"

"Roger that, GCPD. This is Methodist Medevac, approaching from the north, approximate time to visual thirty seconds-"

8:59 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

"Eugene," Fox said again. "Eugene-"

The young man was pre-occupied, pacing, swearing and tearing his hair-"I can't raise her on the fucking radio, her cell's not working either-!

"Eugene," Fox called, more insistently.

"Just wait, alright! Just wait fifteen seconds-" Because fifteen seconds could make a difference, would make her safe-

But Fox knew the truth. The screens said differently. They couldn't land a helicopter on the roof, not with the way the foundations were crumbling-

FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel

GCPD, this is Methodist Medevac. We have visual of target, I repeat, visual of target, over.

Methodist, this is GCPD. We are looking for a missing officer, I repeat, looking for a missing officer, over.

GCPD, this is Methodist. Negative for signs of life. I repeat, negative for signs of life-

Check again, Methodist! Officer was on western corner-

9:00 EST

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

A sudden surge, a spike of brilliant, billowing white, imploding into a dazzling pinprick…then nothing. All monitors blank. Officer Eugene Bradley blinked, not understanding-

Then the machine gave a gentle whine, sputtered, and died. All screens blank, a terrible, inky, lifeless black.

A wrinkled hand on his arm. And he knew. The building had fallen. The fourth transmitter broadcasting it's signal faithfully until the moment of impact, rent by the force of the blow, shattered to dust-

…He had sent a friend to her death.

FCC Emergency Broadcast Channel

OH, SHIT-Oh God what the Hell-! GCPD, t-target has…fallen…

Methodist, this is GCPD can you clarify, I repeat clarify that last broadcast-

GCPD…target has…fallen. I repeat, target has fallen…the whole fucking building…Oh God…resuming medical transit flight to United Methodist. Resuming flight…God. Methodist out.

GCPD Tracking Room

"Resuming flight to United Methodist. Resuming flight…God. Methodist out." That mechanical, unfeeling voice echoing in the silence, another cloud of dust rising on the horizon, blotting out the hope of the rising sun, another sacrifice on the alter of the gods of tyranny and war, a senseless oblivion, a day of reckoning and judgment-

"I'LL KILL YOU I'LL KILL YOU I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU-!"

Milton jumping back Ramirez choking on sobs Allen going beserk ripping Comm set from the wall hurling shattering breaking useless jumble of metal and plastic-

"BRING HER BACK, BRADLEY, YOU FUCKING BRING HER BACK-!"

9:01

Wayne Enterprises Mobile Ops Center

Silence. Blank screens. Nothing but black, empty space, and the horrible, shrinking memory of that sudden burst of white, Allen's voice echoing like her dying screams-

Gotham United Methodist

Bruce Wayne watched emotionlessly as Cameron Shaw announced the collapse of the Fountainhead. Some wept, others only stared, like himself, too numbed, too hurt to care. But none knew what had rested on the roof of that building. None knew what this city had lost, that the only reason they were here was a small box the size of a microwave illegally transmitting signals to a small band of exhausted, but determined men.

Bruce shuddered, stood, and walked away from the television to peer in again on James and Gracie.

Head swathed in bandages, face swollen nearly beyond recognition, many cuts stained orange with iodine. Six-year old Gracie Tanaka. The only reason he was living, only reason he wasn't one of the hundreds now trapped under the Legacy's wrath…

Gracie Tanaka. Perhaps the last victim located with the technology that was now out of their grasp. Gracie Tanaka. Struggling for breath, for life. Condition critical. Perhaps dying. She wouldn't be the first, he noted.

A ray of sunlight broke through the ominous cloud of smoke and dust, lighting the hall, etching a glare on the glass. He turned away.

...She wouldn't be the last.

9: 21 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Montoya. Dead.

Staticky voices cried over the radio from Milton's discarded headset.

…Montoya. Dead.

Crispus Allen's heart-wrenching cries echoed through the room, down the hall, the hall where not eighteen hours before Montoya herself lay screaming.

SHE'S GONE SHE'S GONE SHE'S FUCKING GONE-!

Anna Ramirez was weeping into Gordon's shoulder. Fred Milton had buried his face in his hands.

It was Lawless who stepped silently forward.

Hold him. Cry with him. It won't be okay, nothing can make it right, it will never change it will always be this way. But he isn't alone. Don't you fucking dare let him believe he's alone-

Montoya. Paltron…the Kid. Be strong. Weep. You are a man. A father. This is what you do. What you can do. You hold him while he screams-

9:22 EST

Gotham City Plaza

The rumbling had stopped the shaking had stopped dear God make it stopohGodplease-!

More choking, dust rising debris falling, falling, sharp, stinging pain it burns it burns hot viscous liquid pouring from your belly press it press it some instinct tells you press itpressitnowouryou'lldie-

But you can't. Can't let go. Can't lose that hand, can't lose that hand and be alone-all alone-!

9:23 EST

Sisters of Mercy Convent

Go. Rest.

But there was no rest, only worry, wonder, fear and doubt. Maggie Kyle trembled on her small pallet, tears trickling from her open eyes. Her brother. Dead. No,, no it couldn't be-!

Not Jimmy. Not her Brother. Her hero. He had come back for her, eight years ago he had come back for her, run back into that hellish inferno of crumbling stone and flame, came to find her in the Girl's Dormitories, carried her to safety-

She had lived. Lived when so many others had died…

And again, years later, coming to the hospital after that terrible night, his solidarity, it wasn't your fault Maggie it wasn't your fault, not blaming her, not pressing her, no anger when she didn't testify against her tormenter, no disappointment when she choose a life behind these walls, not even Selina had been so understanding-

He wasn't dead. Couldn't be dead. He was helping. Yes-that was it. Still there, rescuing strangers, not because it was his job but because it was who he was, what he did-

Flamesscreamssmokerisingchokingblindinggroundunderherfeetfallingdownhewasturningaway-

Grip tightening fighting struggling "Jimmy, no! Don't go back in there ohpleaseohGod don't leave me-!"

"They're still in there Maggie, they're all still in there I've got to help them, I have to save him-"

"JIMMY!" Her own voice small and weak, coughing coughing, his white face smudged with smoke, one last glance of those gleaming dark eyes-

But she knew the truth now. It was this heroism that nearly killed him. Would someday kill him. Two hours later, they had pulled him and the dead boy from the stairwell, huddled together in their final moments, skin a grisly black, hair burnt, clothes melted-

A strangled, suffocating sob. Lord let him live, God please spare him whatever you do please spare him-!

9:40 EST

Gotham United Methodist

The door opened, and Bruce jumped to his feet. Amy Lawless' haggard face was inscrutable, blue eyes dull, dark hair falling lankly about her face-

"Gracie-?" He choked, finding suddenly he didn't want to hear the answer.

Amy blinked, put a hand on his arm. "Sit down."

Crushing, awful feeling…Tears again, that strange, hot wetness on his face, tears now after all this time, he hadn't been able to shed them for Rachel, not for his goddamned childhood friend, the one love of his life-

More tears. Trembling lips. Hands to his face. Rachel. Dead. Gone. His fault. All his fucking fault he should never have let her get involved in this he brought this on her a kid a kid she was just a kid a kid like Rachel finding that goddamned arrowhead-

And that wound, that wound was a raw and gaping as it was the first day, the first hour, that terrible second when it was Dent's face and not hers he saw, the feel of the rough suit collar in his hands, dragging him to safety, knowing the cost, the price she would pay-

And again that question, that numbing question, that doubt: was he responsible? Did he bring this upon her? Upon all of them? All the faceless thousands, parents who would never hold children, innocent kids, kids like Gracie-?

It was Alfred's voice. Alfred's mild, irreproaching voice in the silence:

…Rachel believed in what you stood for. What we stand for. Gotham needs you.

Gotham needs you. All that hope. All those lives. They were only wasted, only died in vain if nothing came from them. He had a chance. Could make a difference. Could turn their tragedy into a cause worth sacrificing for-

Bruce blinked, and wiped his eyes.

"Mr. Wayne?" The RN called again. Sighing deeply, he raised his tired face to hers.

9:47 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

"That was a good thing you did." Jim Gordon's voice was whispered, faint. The Commissioner followed soon after, trundling heavily down the limestone stairs, blinking in the sickly sunlight.

Lawless acknowledged his presence with a grunt, casting his gaze again towards the still smoking epicenter. "Know how he feels."

"You should go home." The Commissioner said. "Get out of this mess. You've done enough. Get some rest-"

From his seat on the staircase Lawless shook his head, a strange light in his hazel eyes. "No. I'm not leaving."

"—see your family." Jim smiled sadly. "Please." He couldn't ask them to travel this path with him, couldn't ask them to do what he had done…The machine was off. But it's evidences were undeniable. The hundreds, perhaps thousands of victims who had been located were inexplicable. The Red Cross, Fire Department, the goddamned EMS personnel had all communicated with them, too busy, too distracted to ask questions…

But questions would be asked. Answers would be sought. And when they came, they would come for him and him alone. He would make sure of that.

"Jim," Lawless said lowly, "We're all in this together. All of us. We made this decision. We're not letting you take the fall." But someone had to. Someone had to make the Batman's sacrifice…

Gordon nodded, sinking down next to the haggard Detective. They were silent awhile, the only sounds the distant sirens, the slow pattering of litter up the abandoned sidewalk.

"She was a good woman," The Commissioner stated. "A good cop. I, I didn't know much about Connolly-"

Lawless bit his lips, shaking his head again, staring down at his weathered hands. "He was a just a Kid, Jim. Just a Kid. Had his whole goddamned life ahead of him…" He ran fingers through his dusty auburn hair, struggling for the words to say.

"He was like a, a, a son, you know? And, and I think that's what hurts the worst. I don't want to go home. Don't want to call Ames, see my family…because it's like it'll never be whole again…God." The Detective said, wiping his eyes. "We were remodeling the house together…just, just redoing the back bathroom and bedroom. But I never told him it was for him. Didn't like him living in the Narrows…shitty neighborhood, dangerous-especially for a Kid living alone-"

Gordon was silent. For a moment, the echoes of the Detective's last word were the only sound that hung in the dusty air.

"Hell." Lawless continued. "And that's when it just grabs you by the balls. I knew him for less than a year, Jim. Less than a fucking year but I worked with her for six-"

Guilt. It was the worse feeling in the world. You couldn't live with it, couldn't live with it because something died when you felt it, something died inside you that would never live again-

10:01 EST

Gotham United Methodist

"We drained the hematoma. It was epidural, but it was bleeding fast," the RN whispered.

10:02 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

Silence. Sirens in the distance. The smell of smoke in the air.

Minutes passed. The Detective looked up and met Jim's eyes,, a lifeless smile on his tired face, nodding one last time at the horror in the distance, made no less stark, no less bearable by the sun's strong rays.

The Commissioner offered a shaking hand, and Lawless grasped it wearily. "Sometimes, Arnie, life is sad."

Jim couldn't return the smile. The Chocolate War. About as damn hopeless as it ever gets… He hauled the Detective to his feet, meant to complete the line-

-but never got the chance.

Gotham United Methodist

"She's okay," Bruce repeated stupidly, "She's, she's fine…"

."She's awake if you want to go talk to her-"

He nodded, blinking, not understanding. "She's, she's fine." He said yet again.

"Her vitals are fine. Platelet counts a little low, we'd get her blood if we had any but it just means she might have a longer recovery time without it, we've got an IV running, her color's already back, infection's our only main concern right now-"

"She's alive," the billionaire said disbelieving. "She's…she's alive-!"

10:03 EST

Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

"Sometimes…life is shit" Both men spun, reaching for their forgotten guns, facing that voice, that voice, it couldn't be-!

"Hello boys," The speaker said, wicked grin growing wider and wider. "Why so serious?"

10:04 EST

Gotham United Methodist

The halls felt empty. Dead. Perhaps it was the memory of the haunting faces, the stillness of the air, soft hum of electricity, gentle beeps and whirrings of telemetry…I can endure my own despair, but not another's hope…

Amy Lawless stared in at the sleeping girl, the happiness of the woman, Wayne's stricken tears…At least one story had ended well. One of perhaps thousands that wouldn't. Yet perhaps it hadn't ended well at all. The girl's family was dead. Gone. Even a city as far away as Tokyo would not go unaffected by this tragedy-

She turned away, sunlight streaming in through the floor length windows, casting a shadow behind her that was doubt and dark. Her despair, like that hideous cloud of smoke and dust, blotting out the sun-

But that's when she felt it. That tiny, leaping jolt of sick and giddiness all at once, deep down in her belly, like an elevator stopping-

Rachel K. Dawes Muninciple Building

(GCPD Dual Headquarters)

…Montoya.

Detective Renee Montoya. Alive and in the flesh.

She laughed tiredly at her own joke, teeth flashing white against her dark skin, securing a stray strand of coarse hair behind her right ear. "Lawless, put the gun down before you hurt someone, yeah?" She said, placing a bloodied hand on his shaking arm. "But really, don't quote that book. It's full of shit." her tone grew darker as she rubbed her aching thighs. "And if you really want shit, try running down a hundred and twenty flights of stairs...Madre de Dios… where's that bastard Eugene? I owe him a good, swift kick in the cojones-"

Gotham United Methodist

Charts, papers, a pen scattering unnoticed to the floor, heart leaping, lips parting, hands pressed tightly against her unswollen skin-

GCPD Dual Headquarters

"RENEE-!"

Gotham United Methodist

And she cried. Cried so fucking hard she was laughing, slender fingers pressed over her mouth, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks doors opening people staring she didn't care laughed louder cried harder alivealivethebabywasalive-!

10:09 EST

GCPD Tracking Room

Bradley sobbing over the Comm Montoya's slight frame still quashed in Allen's tight embrace, Anna Ramirez was laughing, laughing, even Milton had tears streaming down his face-

It was a joyful reunion. Unexpected. Unlocked for. Unhoped for…

Jesus Christ Renee I thought you were dead I thought you were fucking dead-

Aaron Lawless smiled grimly, smoke and ash still blotting the morning sun, staining the window a cheerless grey, a world full of despair. Yet behind him friends were rejoicing, the sound of laughter echoing loudly down the long hallway, shattering the silence-

Laughingcryinglaughinglaughing oh God Aaron if you're there if you're alive I'll keep us together whatever it takes whatever it costs her baby their baby was alive-!

But hope, Lawless reflected, was a matter of perspective. Of whether the glass was half-empty, or half-full. Whether night was the end, or beginning of the day…

…if whether doubt was the opposite, or absence of faith.

Don'tgiveupyoucan'tgiveupbebravethey'llfindyouhavetoletgohavetopressstopthebleeding let go let go still out there out there in the darkness still there still there they'll come they'll come for you she said she'd come back no matter what I'll come back for you-

It all depended on perspective. Attitude. With what lens a man viewed the world…

Worth it worth it it will all be worth it Gracie, I promise you someday you'll grow up and I'll make it a better world a world you'll be able to say it was a sacrifice you're proud your family was able to make-

Montoya, Ramirez, Gordon, Allen and Milton were all laughing too loudly, too engrossed in conversation to hear the CRACK as the dust-coated window shattered, the tinkering of raining glass, then-

Sunlight.

Pure, unadulterated sunlight came streaming through the jagged window pane, blinding and brilliant, arms outstretched face uplifted sudden brightness searing the very tears from his eyes with it's beauty.

No more doubt. No more despair. The truth was neither merciful nor terrible. It was objective, unbiased fact…

Frantically looking the chaos ambulances busses everywhere Sara Sara where are you running running through the crowd their daughter their daughter Sara alive unharmed-!

…and it would come when it would come. No sooner.

Mustering courage with a final glance, Aaron Lawless turned his back to the rising sun, feet treading unheard over crackling glass, returning to the Tracking Room, embracing his friends, cherishing their smiles, relishing in the certainty and security that these lives, these, were safe, and that was enough to keep him going-

Because you had to keep your focus right. Had to keep your eye on what was important. Couldn't lose sight of what you had. Couldn't let wrong thinking cloud your mind. You couldn't give into despair, to that black and bitter desire to just let go, give in. Because some things in life were certain.

Faith was meant to be rewarded. Love was made to be requited…

…Because regardless of the cost, once you got down to it, Pandora's Box-like a window-was always intended to be opened.


	15. Chapter 15

Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: To obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

AN: Thanks so much to all who have reviewed!

August 26th  
21:20 EST

103rd Street

Driving. The car is lulling my aching body to sleep. Sleep. I need it-it beckons me like death, Angel's small, expectant hand mere inches from my own-

Intersection. The slow acceleration stirs me. I open my eyes.

The street is filled with twisted, jumbled mounds of ruined vehicles. A plastic cup and lid come bumping up the sidewalk, an eerie, ominous rattle on the silent street.

The hum of the electric engine. Lawless' breath. My own heart beats. These are the only sounds in Gotham. Draped in dark and doubt, the Sleepless City is finally slumbering.

21:33 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

Head lulling, joints aching, knee burning…neither sleeping or waking, walking the verge between dream and death. The car is humming, my heart beating, Lawless drawing deep, measured breaths.

A sudden roaring, a flash of light-!

I wake.

All is white, a sheenless fog.

Dust. Glass. Car exploding a falling building people screaming crashing concrete belching flame burning blackened blood chaoschaos the world is chaos somewhere a boy is screaming…

I wake. Angel's eyes are open. Staring into mine. With agonizing slowness he is etched from nothing… Pale, grey flesh. Thin, dark brows. The straight, perfect line of his nose, the soft, clean angle of his lips and jaw…

I blink, and this face-his face!-again before min, flitting on the shadows of my fleeting consciousness as it has for 13 lonely years. I fear to move, to hope, to breathe lest I wake. Heart breaking, beating, throbbing yet these eyes have never before been so clear…

Angel. I am Tantalus, beyond belief, beyond hope, reaching a hesitant, trembling hand to his evanescent face, shaking fingertips drawing closer and closer-

Dust. Glass. Sirens shouting vomit of ash reek of smoke and burning flesh hell hell this must be hell yet the backs of my falling fingers come softly to rest, trailing lightly against warm, living flesh-

…calm. Still. I wake. Angel lies silent beside me, my hand on his perfect face.

Cold.

I wake. My hand has fallen not against Angel's face but onto the stark chill of a bullet proof windowpane. The car has passed. The night is dark. My heart is empty. The eyes I see are my own, staring back at me through the silhouette of the Sleepless City, spiraling into the night sky as cold and cruel as it had 13 years ago, riding with Gordon.

Gotham.

A cold, unfitting tomb for any Angel.

21:41 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

I wake. The warm, familiar hum of the cruiser has disappeared. Voices. Footsteps. I blink groggily and sit up.

A National Guard check point. Ten men block the road, two more in the backs of jeeps, rifles raised and ready. Slowly they surround the car, rapping on the driver's side window. "We'll need to see some ID, officer."

"Detective Aaron Lawless," Lawless grunts, flipping his wallet.

Bright white light in my face. The Uniform stoops, face unintelligible in the blinding glare of the flashlight. "And the girl?"

"That's Lt. Paltron. MCU division."

"We'll need to see some ID." Wearily I search my pockets, holding out my battered wallet. He snatches it from my trembling hand, staring long and hard to reconcile my lifeless face with my photo ID. He does not find it easy.

"Satisfied?" Lawless asks, swiftly taking back our badges. No answer. They are on their radios-probably calling us in, confirming again what they already know-minutes pass, the greenish glow of the dash changing from 9:49 to 9:50.

Lawless grows anxious and restless beside me, muttering to himself and glancing repeatedly out his window.

I shut my eyes again, and try to sleep.

21:54 EST

Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway

I wake. Jarred from sleep by angry shouts "…in need of medical attention, goddamnit! I don't care what the fuck you've got going on just let me take her through!"

Numbed. Sleeping. He seems upset, unusually upset…but consciousness fades in and out, rational thought tumbling slowly away from me.

The door slams. Lawless rips his seat belt from the frame, buckling it with ferocity. "Life is shit." He snarls, glancing in the review mirror with particular vehemence. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Wearily I nod, turning over in the seat as the engine begins to thrum. My eyes flit open, and the world is white, hazy, unfocused…a pale, poignant face flashes before mine: Angel. I bolt up in my seat with wrenching agony, the pain in my leg nothing, nothing compared to the ache in my heart-

I suck in my breath, lungs turning to lead. I suffocate on my grief.

Lawless' impatience, restlessness, growing anger. All explained. Etched over Gotham's skyline is an advertisement for Stop the Violence, still in place. Those bold words in stark, strong white against the dark backdrop of an image that over the summer has become an icon, an image now both as famous and unbearable as that little girl after 9/11, eyes upraised, face bathed in tears, an American flag clutched firmly in one fragile fist-

Four months ago, Chris Holden captioned it Stop the Violence. The Wayne Legacy Foundation seized rights to it for their promotional advertisement. Every citizen of Gotham knows it as the Crying Cop. But that photo-that face!-were not staged. No artificial lighting no make up no acting coach…nothing but raw, unscripted pain.

…I would know. I was there.

Chinatown. Xiao Wang.

Connolly is brave. Braver than any would have thought. He stands stricken, eyes wide in horror, blanching in pain. He could walk away, walk away in front of us all and even Eugene and Fred would never dare judge him…He could collapse, wretch, run to the strength and protection that is Lawless and no one would think any less of him…but he does not. Slowly, wearily he stumbles forward. He takes gloves, takes the black, unfeeling vinyl, helps lift and arrange each fragile, broken body as gently as though he may accidentally wake the child from her slumber.

Trembling fingers zip shut the last black bag. Weak as he is, he is strong. Any boy can weep, but it takes courage to be both a man and to cry. And of the twenty-odd Officers, Medics, Forensic specialists and interpreters crowded into this dank, humid house-Lawless and myself included- he is the only one with that strength of heart.

Begrudging respect grows thick in my throat.

Lawless is tense beside me. Fred and Eugene have turned away. That small, sad train of gurneys leaves, whirring lights flickering in through the open door frame, the sound of pouring water all around, rain beating down on the roof, overflowing the gutters, lapping higher and higher against the porch.

Yet it is impossible to say which flows faster, the freezing rain or the boy's hot tears.

Connolly stands in the doorframe, tiny and trembling, gloved hands still shaking and smeared with blood. He didn't need to see this, Lawless had said. Called him Kid. Treated him like a kid. He may still-but he will never confuse him for one again. Freezing cold, dripping wet, barely out of boyhood Jimmy Connolly has now glanced into Gotham's despairing heart of darkness, the sickening severity of her sins, her hidden horror…and has walked away scarred, but vulnerable.

I resent him. I-like so many of Gotham's public service workers-have become both calloused and numb…no sorrow, no tears, no suffering. Only anger.

"Kid-" Lawless takes a step forward. Connolly turns towards us, and for a sudden, shrinking second I am held fast in his gaze, Lawless and Eugene frozen beside me. That awful gaze is not accusatory-perhaps it would be bearable if it was. He stares at us like a dying doe, liquid eyes wide in pain, blinking weakly in the bright glare of headlights, unable to comprehend. Stricken. Silent. No anger no curses no screams. Only a pressing, pleading question.

Why?

Rain continues to pound. Silence surrounds us. Time crashes to a halt.

A sudden spattering retch that shrinking second explodes Connolly collapses to the slickened porch heaving sobbing ripping the bloodied latex from his child's hands crawls to the edge gasping retching water pouring down scrubbing hands face ruined uniform flesh red raw in freezing rain Lawless surges forward Eugene shouts just leave him alone for God's sake just let him be alone-!

But he is not alone. Not even in the solace and silence of the midnight downpour. EMS. Neighbors. CSI. The Press. All ring the yellow-tape perimeter, pressing to get a better view. Lawless calls his name, and he raises his wet and wretched head, brows knit, lips parted, dripping face pale in shock and cold-

Lightning flashes. And in that moment, the photographer snaps his picture.

I am Paul. I am blinded. My Angel stood weeping not feet from me, but I did not see. It is the steep price of a veteran's victory: to live and not feel, to look and not see…

Yet I know now it is that picture, that night, my own goddamned callousness that marked him for death. His innocent, boyish face, like Trisha Tanaka's bubbly voice, could never go unmissed-

I too, am responsible for his death. The blood staining my hands not only that of his killer's but his as well. That realization is both black and bitter, stalking me though the silence. Lawless drives on, face set and stern. For the first time in six goddamned years I find his expression inscrutable. I feel a sudden chill: am I so far gone, so fallen from grace, that I can no longer read him? With a shudder I remember the bank, that grey curtain fallen again between my world and this…I feel uncertain. Afraid.

"You still pissed at me?" I whisper. But silence is my only answer.

Still we drive. Light pole after light pole, block after empty block…

"No," He finally sighs. "You did what you thought was necessary-treated him like a man- did what I couldn't do." He grimaces bitterly. "This isn't your fault." The weight of guilt rests heavily on him-I have borne it myself long enough to know.

He casts a glance at me, hazel eyes hesitant, probing. Gordon's words echo eerily in the silence: Connolly's death, I should've known… and suddenly I remember as though an age ago Lawless' weeping: He was, he was my partner, you know? I couldn't-I tried…I had, I had to tell Amy that Jimmy…that, that he was dead.

I do not find hope in another's despair. Yet I am not as alone as I have allowed myself to think. Angel's agonized eyes still reflect in the review mirror, staring hauntingly at us from beyond the grave. I blanch, but cannot look away. My beautiful, perfect little boy.

Gone.

We round the corner. The billboard disappears. Again he is taken from me.

Yet so is my fear. For now I am bound by my injuries and illness…but the road to recovery is the first steps of my path to vengeance. And when I am free the streets will run red with the reek of blood of all those responsible and the criminals and whores and dirty politicians will raise their hands crying spare us-!

…and I will whisper no.

I am Prometheus, I tell the empty, midnight sky. Behold me, I am wronged.


End file.
